


An Enthralling Holiday Abroad

by Jay Auris (nighthawkms)



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Anachronistic, Blood Drinking, Blood Loss, Blood Magic, M/M, Power Dynamics, Time Shenanigans, Vampire Bites, Vampire Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-03
Updated: 2018-11-01
Packaged: 2019-07-06 11:04:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 35,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15884757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nighthawkms/pseuds/Jay%20Auris
Summary: Newt just wanted to go on a grand European adventure before he settled down and started a real job. Now he's got a brooding, repressed English vampire to contend with. This is gonna be one weird summer.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this fic was partially inspired by my love of vampire stories and AUs, and also by feriowind's [Hellsing](https://twitter.com/KaijuFerio/status/991702718388486144) [Newmann](https://twitter.com/KaijuFerio/status/992060626003312640) [AU](https://twitter.com/KaijuFerio/status/992453145207848960) and Hermann's design therein, which is what his transformed form in this fic is based off of. Apologies for any anachronistic speech on Hermann's part, I gave it my best go but I am no expert on dialogue from that time period.
> 
> Much thanks to GloriaVictoria for doing fantastic beta work on this fic.
> 
> UPDATE: I need to give Ferio so much thanks for drawing the art you see in this fic and letting me add it in, it's utterly gorgeous and fits in perfectly with the aesthetic I was going for this first chapter. I really hope it adds to your reading experience!

Newt watched a hell of a lot of Gilligan's Island as a child. Whenever he was sick home from school, it was the only passible entertainment on daytime television when cartoons switched off and talk shows for older baby boomers switched on. That insipid 60s theme song eventually buried itself in his hind brain, somewhere around the thirtieth instance of Gilligan fucking up the group's escape plans once _again._ Really, they should have cannibalized him after the third episode and pleaded ignorance to their eventual rescuers.

Unlike the TV show, Newt doesn't think that this particular boat trip had any skeezy old dudes lusting after young twenty-something women. But when the ferry he’s on is sinking and he's scrambling for a lifeboat, that damned song pops into his head, the repetitive lyrics of _a three-hour tour, a three-hour tour_ beating in time with the rain and the crashing lightning. It’s a bitter sort of irony that such a cheery tune is the accompaniment to his likely drowning in the English Channel.

He supposes the connection was established in his unconscious by the relative shortness of both boat trips, and the fact that they both ended (or are currently ending, as it were) in catastrophic sinking. It was supposed to be a fun little jaunt, a simple crossing between England and France, which is country numero _tres_ on his 'Grand European Adventure Before Leaving Academia.' Six PhDs under his belt, riding high into the final months of his 20s, a dozen job offers waiting for his return, and he'd wanted to see the sights, get drunk on Irish whiskey, French champagne, German stout and Spanish sherry. See the motherland, test out his scrappy _Deutsche_ to see if conversational bilingualism with his uncle and dad would pay off. After that, he'd settle down, get a real job, use the last twenty-five years of accumulated educational knowledge to become the best of the best... at something. He's got his fingers in so many pies, never able to choose, and why would he? After all, if he forced himself to focus, to narrow his specialization, well… how could he possibly give up everything else?

Career choice doesn’t feel so pertinent when he's trying to keep this rickety-ass, no-way-in-hell-this-piece-of-shit-passed-inspection lifeboat afloat. The storm had come upon them suddenly, despite a forecast clear and blue as the calm waves below their feet. One moment there was nothing, and the next, they were overwhelmed by massive, thundering clouds, great gales of wind, and a downpour of rain that flooded every possible surface of the ship. The crashing waves listed the boat sideways, threatening to tip it over.

Somehow, Newt found himself thrown across the deck, away from anyone else, shoving off into the raging black waters in a boat alone. The last time he'd seen any of the other lifeboats was an hour ago, and the last time he'd seen land an hour before that, but he knows basic enough shit like 'sun rises in the east, sets in the west' to know that if he keeps rowing with the moon rising to his left, eventually he'll hit some part of France. It can't take _that_ long.

And yet after another two hours, the sea stays wide and formless, the choppy waters making his hurried rowing stay hurried. He had deposited his glasses into his jacket pocket, the rain splattered glass an even worse vision than his blurry-eyed going without. He's getting tired, unused to this level of physical labor, and he's seriously considering whether shooting off the last flare is a good idea when a blurry dot on the horizon catches his attention. He hauls ass towards it and shoves his glasses back on when he gets close, blocking the rain with one hand to try and get a better look.

It's a beach, an island, an archipelago, perhaps? It's covered with a dense treeline a few hundred feet off the beach and can't be more than two or three miles wide at the point facing him. He doesn't think mainland France has geography that spits this far out from the rest of the continent, but... well, it's something. And if there's land, god willing, there's people to go along with it. He can beach the boat, walk up, maybe pass out for a few hours, and then keep walking. From there, maybe he can find out if he's managed to find humanity or if he's about to be as lost as Robinson Crusoe.

The rain worsens as he closes in on the island, and a heavy wave almost tips him over. The next wave finished the job, and Newt crashes into the waters, gasping and struggling to the surface. He uses the last of his energy reserves to swim to the beach, dragging himself onto it, shivering and curling up on the sand.

He wakes hours later, to see the boat in splinters farther up the shoreline. The rain has stopped, the moonlight casting a pale glow across the wet sand. Everything aches, his arms especially, and it takes him ten minutes to work up the energy to hobble over to the boat and rummage through whatever he can find left. There's a knapsack with some vacuum sealed food and canteens of water, the flare gun, a first aid kit, a blanket, and at the very bottom... holy shit, is that a _pistol?_ And bullets to go along with it. Do European ferries carry regulation firearms?

 _Well, if I'm trapped here forever, there's an easy way out_ , Newt thinks, then scolds himself for being so dramatic. The English Channel is a highly trafficked body of water. Even if he’d landed on an island with no one else on it, there's no reason to think he can't attract the attention of another boat, or a passing plane.

He loads the gun, his half-remembered lessons as a young boy coming back as he locks the safety. The gun goes into the side pocket of the knapsack, and he slings it over his shoulder. His wallet and phone somehow managed to stay in the pockets of his jeans through this whole ordeal, but the former has nothing of use, and the latter is likely soaked through and destroyed. Still, he tucks them into the pocket of the knapsack, and begins walking.

The waters around the island have stilled, jet black flatness that resembles polished steel. The moon is full and low overhead, listing towards the right. It must be near the witching hour. Why he notices that, he doesn't know. As he approaches, the darkness of the woods ahead seems to grow, and Newt hesitates at the edge of the tree line. Nothing seems amiss, regular night noises of crickets, small woodland creatures, and the rustle of leaves.

 _Are there bears in France?_ Newt thinks, taking a hesitant step forward. _There are definitely bears in France. Half of Grimm's Fairy Tales are set here. So, yeah, maybe the gun will come in handy._

He'd chosen hiking boots as his main footwear for this trip, because he'd been roughing it in hostels and public transport, which thankfully means other than squishing in wet socks, his feet are quite comfortable as he cuts through the thick underbrush. A snapped off branch serves as a walking stick that he uses to clear a path. The noises of the woods fade into a soothing white noise as he goes along, because they don't change, no loud sounds of angry _ursidae_ or _canis lupus_ pawing a path towards him. His own steps on the crackling leaves make the loudest noise.

"Three hour tour, my ass," Newt mutters. The hoarseness of his voice startles him, the first human sound he's heard since the boat sank. "Fuck, I'm gonna end up like Tom Hanks, talking to this knapsack like it's another person."

A step down takes him onto flat ground, well-trodden and packed dirt that leads towards his right in what he's absolutely certain is a man-made path, pressed into form by feet and wheels and things that don't exist on an island where nobody has ever gone. Well, at least he knows somebody was here at some point. And if there's a path, it probably leads to somewhere populated.

The sudden absence of noise makes Newt's breaths stand out in stark contrast. The woods have gone absolutely dead silent. No bugs, no small creatures, no rustling leaves. It's as if the air itself has been spooked to stillness. A deep dread prickles its way up the back of Newt's spine, and he swings the knapsack over his shoulder, fingers fumbling to pull out the gun. Gripping it tight, he looks left, then right, and chooses the latter way forward.

The moon shines brightly enough to illuminate the path, and Newt dashes along it, panting heavily as the silence continues. Branches lash across his legs as he stumbles forward, unsure of why he's running, just sure that there's _something_ that needs running from.

He rounds the bend, and then freezes.

The path continues upwards, the tree line opening up to the sky. At the top of the path is a massive shape, humanoid but far too tall, too stretched out, limbs akimbo and bent at terrifying angles, the moon behind its form making identification in shadow impossible.

This. This is it. What he was trying to run from, he's been running towards.

 

 

 

(artwork by [Feriowind](https://twitter.com/feriowind))

 

The thing comes for him. Newt raises the gun, stumbles back as the first shot throws him off balance. It dodges, practically rolls around the arc of the shot, and Newt finally lets out a scream, deep from the animal part of his throat, the sheer terror of prey that can see the predator's approach. He gets off a second shot before the survival part of his hind-brain has him turning and running pell-mell straight back the way he came. The woods stay silent but for his desperate pounding boots, his panicked gasping. He can't hear the thing coming for him, doesn't know where he's running, only that he has to get away, _away_ , because if he turns around he's going to die, going to be consumed by that thing that has ripped its way out of the collective nightmares of the human race to chase him down.

His foot catches on a tree branch, and he hits the ground flat, and his head cracks against another root jutting up out of the dirt. It knocks him out cold, the last thing he sees before slipping into unconsciousness is a form looming over him, and what looks like a hand moving towards his face.

~

Newt startles awake from dreamless sleep.

 _I'm alive_ , is his first thought, as his brain registers the hard stone ground under his body, and the throbbing pain ripping through his head. He swallows and feels resistance, something tight around his throat. There's something dry and flaking under his hands, and he rubs his thumb against the material, coming away with the word _straw_ , remembering the bales of it he used to sit on for Halloween hayrides in the crisp autumn air.

When his head stops throbbing so hard, he opens his eyes to see the straw and the stone floor, and the stone walls of the small room he's in. There's a heavy metal door across from him, with a small window cut in the middle towards the top, iron bars slatted across the opening. He hears rattling as he sits up, and feels cold steel around his wrists; a pair of manacles, each connected to a chain that leads behind him, hooked into iron rings in the wall. He lifts a hand and feels another ring of steel around his neck, and when he looks up, he sees another chain, longer and bolted higher up on the wall.

 _What the shit?_ Newt things, yanking against one chain and finding it solid. _I'm alive and in somebody's medieval recreation of a dungeon? Oh fuck, do people even make these anymore besides for kinky shit? Is this somebody's sex dungeon? You shouldn't have watched that European torture porn movie before this trip, Newt, you goddamn idiot!_

He finds he can stand, but the chains keep him from moving more than a foot or so away from the wall, so he plops back down, sighing. He's gone from a pleasant ferry ride, to almost drowning in the sea, to almost being eaten by some sort of fantastical monster, to waking up somebody's prisoner.

This is not the type of grand Eurotrip he was hoping for.

There's light flickering through the window of the cell door, no windows to the outside, so he has no idea how long he's been passed out. But after a few minutes, he hears metal creaking from somewhere outside the cell, and sits up and listens. There's no sound, but then a face appears in the barred window, and Newt yelps and curses, slamming back against the wall.

"Jesus, you mind letting a guy know if you're gonna sneak up on him like that?" Newt says. "Fuck, how the hell did you do that?"

Newt hears scraping metal, a click, and then the door swings open. The face becomes a man, a tall, thin man, dressed like someone out of a BBC Masterpiece Theater mini-series. He wears a double-breasted forest-green vest, a navy-blue waist-coat, and matching trousers. Spectacles hang across his chest from a golden chain. He wears a single glove covering his left hand. His hair is cropped short, undercut, light brown and straight. His face is thin, pointed, eyes turned down at the corners, mouth wide and set in a perpetual frown, the very picture of a brooding country English gentleman.

"Who are you?" The man asks, his accent a proper _old_ form of English that adds to the whole 'Colin-Firth-in-Pride-And-Prejudice' aesthetic. "What sort of business do you have disturbing my domain? Were you sent?"

"I got shipwrecked, dude," Newt snaps, tired, hungry and so not in the mood for the twenty-questions routine. "Yanno, ferry got caught in a storm, ship sank, I caught a lifeboat and ended up here. Some real Gilligan's Island shit. What's with the getup? Also, can you get me out of these chains? I prefer negotiation of consent before we move straight to the sex slave role-playing. Just saying."

The man frowns, as if half the things Newt said were foreign and incomprehensible. "You attempted to assassinate me," he says. "I do not make a habit of allowing assassins free reign of my home."

"Assassinate? Wait, that was _you?_ " Newt says, eyes going wide. "That- dude, I thought you were some weird French demon trying to _eat me_!"

"Certainly not," the man says, scowling. "You came upon me wielding a firearm. Then, when I attempted to approach, you fired a shot at my person. I was simply defending myself."

"You looked, um, kind of not human coming at me," Newt says, realizing that yeah, it kind of makes sense that a strange guy running around a corner and shooting at you would seem threatening. Nevertheless, he knows what he saw, and what we saw couldn’t have been real.

An incomprehensible expression crosses the man's face. "I find humans a much more damning threat than anything you might find in those woods."

"What's your name?" Newt asks, getting to his feet. The man makes no move to retreat, so he can't be all _that_ concerned about Newt's threat potential.

"You may call me Dr. Gottlieb," the man says. "I am the caretaker of this castle."

"We're in a castle? Sweet, I wanted to see some of these old medieval structures on my trip! Oh, I'm Newt. Newton Geiszler. Also a doctor, like six times over, but just Newt is fine, titles are bullshit."

Dr. Gottlieb sniffs, but raises an eyebrow. "You have _six_ doctorates?"

"Yep," Newt says. He's definitely intrigued the guy. Maybe that'll get him out of these chains faster. "Biology, Engineering, Bioengineering - that one was kind of a gimmie - Physics, Computer Science, and a little bit of Philosophy for some balance. What's yours in?"

"Mathematics," Dr. Gottlieb replies. "I enjoyed a great deal of prominence in my field for many years."

"Hmmm, I don't remember hearing about a Gottlieb amongst the math boys at MIT. Wait, did you have a great-grandad in the field? There was a Hermann Gottlieb back in the 1800s. He introduced a number of important principles that we use in modern computational science. Dude was kind of a mathematical genius."

Dr. Gottlieb casts his eyes down to the floor and... is he _blushing_? What the ever-loving hell is he doing that for?

"Dr. Geiszler-" he says suddenly.

"It's Newt, dude. Please, not with the titles."

"Fine, yes... Newt. I need you to answer a very important question. It will no doubt strike you as highly unusual and perhaps make me sound uneven, but, I must know. What year is it?"

Newt blinks, frowns, then raises an eyebrow. "How do you- do you not have a calendar on this island? Wi-Fi? Shit, you don't even _need_ WiFi, just something programmed in the last decade to keep time."

"Please answer the question," Dr. Gottlieb says, looking a bit desperate.

"If I answer, will you get me out of these?" Newt asks, pointing to the chains.

Dr. Gottlieb sighs. "Yes, alright."

"Fine... it's 2019. How long have you been-"

Newt jumps back when Dr. Gottlieb slams his fist into the stone wall, the rock beneath his hand cracking upon impact. He leans against the structure and presses his face against his arm, letting out a shuddering breath.

"No," Dr. Gottlieb groans. "I cannot... it cannot be. This godforsaken place, how long will it keep me under its hold?!"

Newt raises his hands, talking a careful step forward. "Um, Gottlieb? Did you lose track of time? Look, I'm sure your DVR saved all those episodes of Midsummer Murders that you had planned on watching. I'm guessing your data connection out here isn't that great, but if you've got a wall jack, we can try my phone, maybe it's not dead. Were you, like, supposed to submit a literature proposal, or get your latest theoretical models to your boss? 'Cause that's all fixable. So why don't you just unlock these cuffs, and we'll go try to-"

"I do not understand half of what you are prattling about," Dr. Gottlieb snaps, breathing hard, and Newt swears he spies a ripple of movement shoot right down his back, under his coat, but that can't have happened. He’s growing larger now – his limbs lengthen, his spine curls, his hair grows longer and ragged, and two very _sharp_ looking fangs extend from his mouth. None of this can actually be happening, Newt frantically thinks to himself, except that it _is_. He presses back into the wall as the room seems to shrink, as Gottlieb grows, a set of claws growing out from his perfectly manicured nails.

"I have no reference for these things, Newt," Gottlieb growls as he turns his face from his arm, eyes glowing a bloody red, face twisted in feral fury. Newt feels a primal scream welling in the depth of his throat again; this was the monster he’d seen on the forest path, in its true, terrifying form. "And that is because I have been trapped here for _one hundred and seventy eight years!_ "

 

 

 

(artwork by [Feriowind](https://twitter.com/feriowind))

 

Newt feels pinned by the unnatural rage and grief in Gottlieb’s eyes, and those jutting fangs that could rip his throat out in two seconds flat. He can't move, can’t hide, can only scrabble at the wall with scraping fingernails and whimper in terror, tears running down his face, the same terror of death that struck him in the woods. He's going to die here, murdered by this - this _creature_ from a nightmare, his human strength useless against Gottlieb’s power.

 

 

 

(artwork by [Feriowind](https://twitter.com/feriowind))

 

Then all at once, Gottlieb appears human once more. He stumbles back from the doorway, gasping for breath as if exhausted by the effort. His fangs and red eyes have disappeared, his limbs returned to their normal size.

Newt drops to the ground, curling in on himself into the corner of the room, as far as the chains will let him. Gottlieb grips the doorway, and that bubble of fear chokes a whimper out of Newt's throat again, but Gottlieb seems to only be regaining his composure.

"What are you?" Newt whispers. "Please, just... let me go. I won't tell anybody, I promise, I'll just go. I just want to go. I, I don't want to die."

Gottlieb stares at him, and Newt can see something pained flash across his face. He opens his mouth as if to speak, but then sighs and shakes his head.

"Would that I could," Gottlieb mutters. "But we are both prisoners of this place now. I- I am truly sorry, Newt."

"What does that _mean?_ "

" _Sleep_ ," Gottlieb says, and all of a sudden, Newt feels the weight of his exhaustion bear down on him. "I shall explain when you wake."

The fear for survival should keep him conscious, but his eyes refuse to stay open, as if Gottlieb has cast a spell on them. Newt finds himself collapsing to the floor, limbs growing heavy, eyes fluttering shut. There's a rustling from the hallway. Something drapes over him, and a hand smooths back his hair.

Newt wonders briefly why Gottlieb is showing him physical affection instead of devouring him whole, but he passes into sleep before he can even begin to speak.


	2. Chapter 2

When he wakes again, the chains have been removed. The door to the cell is open, and Gottlieb's navy-blue waistcoat is covering Newt like a blanket, keeping him warm in the chill air of the stone room.

Newt keeps the waistcoat wrapped around himself and stumbles out of the cell. He finds himself in another hallway, a few other cell doors on either side, torches lighting a path down to a staircase that leads upwards. There's a wooden table next to his cell's doorway, a creaky-looking thing with an attached bench. On top of the table is a platter and a paper note beside it. Newt picks up the note, reads the neat, cursive handwriting.

_Please replenish your strength, relieve yourself if you must, and then follow the torchlight to the library. I shall explain all. - Dr. Gottlieb_

Newt lifts the top of the platter. Underneath sits a roasted chicken leg and thigh, surrounded by buttered and herbed carrots. Newt doesn't bother with the provided fork, grabbing the end of the drumstick and biting into the meat. He groans happily as hot, delicious juice fills his mouth, and he ends up devouring the whole thing, popping the carrots between his lips three at a time after he’s done with the bird. He hadn't realized how hungry he was until he smelled the meat, and now satiated, he looks at the bucket on the floor next to the bench.

_Seriously?_ Newt thinks, wrinkling his nose. _They've gotta have some indoor plumbing somewhere in this place..._

But the note _did_ mention 'relieving' himself, and he supposes that is what Gottlieb meant.

He takes a quick piss, leaves everything where it is, and heads for the stairs.

The stone steps twist and wind upward until finally, Newt steps up into the long hallway lit with torches, carpeted in a deep plush purple. Windows line the walls, each covered in thick drapery. He moves aside one curtain and finds the hallway brightens up considerably, even as he watches the evening sun set over the horizon. He must've been asleep for half a day or more...

"Please leave that be."

Newt's head snaps to the left, and he sees Gottlieb standing in front of a wooden door at the end of the hall. He's lacking a tailcoat, white sleeves of his button-down visible, and he has changed out his green vest for a purple one, almost identical to the carpet, his trousers now as black as his shoes. He has tied a fine black cravat at his neck, and he still wears a single glove over his left hand.

"You, uh, you really like the dark," Newt stammers, letting the curtain fall back into place. He can’t quite read Gottlieb's current mood, not sure if his doing anything to displease the... the _whatever_ Gottlieb is, will set him off again. He just doesn't want to see what he saw in the woods and the dungeon ever again.

"I have little choice in the matter," Gottlieb replies, motioning him closer. "Come into the library. There's a fire, some sherry… and an explanation, if you would like one."

"Yeah, I’d really appreciate that," Newt says, taking careful, slow steps towards him. "Thanks for the chicken. And the, uh, piss bucket?"

Gottlieb smiles. It's the first time Newt's seen him do that, and it's in such contrast to the wild, demonic rage he was exuding earlier. Gottlieb's smile softens the harsh edges of his mouth, turns the furrowed pinch of his brows into a pleasant slope. His eyes shimmer with what could only be described as... fondness? Newt can't imagine where that's come from. But all the same, a confusing, warm flutter sparks in Newt's chest, and he can't help but smile back, looking down.

_What's wrong with me?_  he thinks. _That's not a person, it's a monster_.

"You are quite welcome. I am uncertain as to the accommodations you are used to in your era, but I shall endeavor to provide what I can here."

"It's cool, don't put yourself out. So, what do you mean exactly, when you say 'my era?'"

It's a dumb question, one he didn’t need to ask. Newt has already started to get a clearer picture of why the dude dresses like he's from the 1840s.

Gottlieb opens the door behind him, stepping aside. "Come inside. Let us talk."

Newt steps into a large circular room, with a domed ceiling and an arched fireplace across from the door. Above this stretched a long chimney, one of the only spots on the wall not covered by wooden bookshelves. Each of these bulge with books, manuscripts practically falling off the shelves. There must be _thousands_ of titles in here, and Newt wonders if Gottlieb has read them all. A round rug covers the floor, a writing desk sits in the corner, and two couches sit parallel from each other in front of the flickering flames.

"Please, make yourself comfortable," Gottlieb says. "I shall pour the sherry."

Newt settles onto one of the couches and kicks off the hiking boots, hissing as the socks dried with saltwater stick to his skin. As he peels them away, he reveals the angry red splotches covering his feet. He can feel the salt dried into his T-shirt and jeans now, and he's going to need to wash them out or find something else to wear.

"We'll find you a change of clothes," Gottlieb says, as if reading his mind. He comes over to the couches, two glasses in hand, and Newt notices that the steps he takes are heavy, but he barely makes a sound. Newt has to strain to hear him.

Newt nods a thanks as Gottlieb hands him a glass. The sherry is sweet, achingly so, possibly hundreds of years old, depending on how long Gottlieb has been keeping the bottle, and Newt downs it in one go, shaking his head when Gottlieb proffers him the other glass.

"I don't want to be drunk for this," Newt says, wiping his mouth. "I want to know what's going on. What happened earlier? You said you've been here for... like over a century and a half? How is that possible? Did the Victorians figure out something about longevity and suspended aging and just forget to mention it?"

Gottlieb shakes his head, sipping from his own glass. "Do you believe in faerie stories, Newt?"

Newt snorts. "Magic and the supernatural and shit? Nah. That stuff is out of the realm of science. A bunch of hocus pocus dreamed up by people to keep their kids from wandering into the woods at night."

"Do all scientists of your era hold the same high regard for them as you?"

"Dude, I’ve got two words for you: scientific method. Unless I can observe, document, and replicate the phenomenon, then I'm not giving it any credence. Nobody's ever produced or documented actual proof of faeries, Bigfoot, Nessie, aliens, ghosts, nothing like that, and anyone who believes it now either spends too much time watching the 'History Channel' or reading conspiracy theory blogs."

Gottlieb shrugs. "Yes, well... Perhaps in your era, these things are better documented, but in mine, there was still quite a bit of mystery about some of the fundamental workings of the universe. As such, scientists did not preclude the possibilities of things supernatural in nature. Some of us sought out these supernatural creatures, and places, myself included. Mathematics is my true love, but mathematics underlies the movements of the universe, and so I sought themout, wanting to test whether they stayed the same no matter where I sought them."

"So, you were a traveling mathematician?" Newt asks. "That's new. Most of you guys are in labs and in front of computers nowadays."

"This island is a faerie story, Newt," Gottlieb continues. " _The Tale of the Vampyr's Hold_. An old one, even older now, I suppose. The story goes that an elder vampire was terrorizing an English village, and a coven of witches came to the aid of the townspeople. They captured the vampire, sailed him to the center of the English Channel, and imprisoned him on an island, cursing him to live out the rest of time alone, unable to feed on humans, subsisting on the animals of the island. The island itself disappeared from existence through the efforts of the witches, to prevent the vampire from attempting escape."

"Okay, kinda weird, but I've heard weirder," Newt says. "So, if the island is supposed to be disappeared, how did I end up on it? And how did _you_ end up on it?"

"Therein lies the twist of the tale," Gottlieb says. "The witches' power has hold three-hundred and sixty-four days of each year. But there is a singular day every year when the barrier that keeps the island separate fades. On that day, one might come and seek out the vampire, to learn the secrets of immortality. At least, that was the allure."

"So, what, you wanted to live forever?"

"Not exactly. I cared more about the minor details of the story, specifically how one might cause an entire geographical body to vanish. Was it simply an illusion? Did the island itself truly disappear from the space where it usually lay, or had the physical dimensional space compressed or distorted? I had an estimated location for the island, and an imprecise time of the year when locals claimed to have spotted it in the past. With this, I rented a schooner, took to the waters, and waited."

"Since you’re sitting here telling me this, I assume your wait paid off?"

Gottlieb nods, putting the sherry glass on the table beside him and folding his hands into his lap.

"I found it," he says. "However, I had not factored in some very pertinent details. For instance, each time the island appears, a massive, raging storm appears along with it-- the witches' attempt to prevent the vampire's escape. Much like you, I was marooned here, unable to leave.

"Then I met the vampire," Gottlieb continues, looking down. A pallor comes across his face, and Newt leans in. "He was real, frighteningly so. He had been trapped here so long, any trace of humanity was lost. He was as wild a creature as you witnessed before, and I nearly died fending him off. I only survived it because the sun rose as he chased me into the castle, and he did not cross the threshold in time. I watched him burn and disintegrate in the sun."

"What then?" Newt asks.

"Then... I changed," Gottlieb says. A little shudder runs through him, and he presses a hand to his face. "This island is the Vampyr's Hold, and there must always be a vampire to hold it, I suppose. As the old one burned away, the curse passed to me. When I tried to step back into the sun, I knew I was forsaken."

Now Gottlieb holds his hand out, tugging loose the one glove. When it comes off, Newt gasps. The skin of his hand is red, flesh melted across the fingers and back of the palm, pocked with blackened spots. It's as if Gottlieb held his hand to an open flame.

That was caused by the sun? _Impossible,_ Newt thinks. And yet, Newt has seen and heard so many impossible things in the last few hours. 

Just as quickly as Gottlieb removes the glove, he replaces it and solemnly buttons it up.

"So, you see, I am trapped here, in unending solitude," Gottlieb says. "I have not seen another individual for almost two centuries. I have spent that time attempting to understand how this island works, and how I might escape it, but my efforts so far have borne no fruit. You understand now why your coming here was quite the shock."

Newt nods, leaning back into the couch. He tries to absorb what Gottlieb has told him. The story sounds utterly fantastical, like the ravings of a madman... but Newt remembers seeing Gottlieb's monstrous form. He had seen that with his own eyes, so if nothing else, that piece of the story holds water.

"So, what does vampirism actually entail?" Newt asks. "I mean, I know a bunch of shit from horror movies but... you can't go into the sun, we can see that. Do you drink blood?"

Gottlieb nods. "The forest animals replenish themselves frequently enough, and I rarely have to kill in order to drink, in any case."

"So, but I mean, you've never had... _human_ blood," Newt says, swallowing, watching Gottlieb's eyes flick to his neck.

"I have not," Gottlieb says, shaking his head. "And I have no plans to, I assure you. Consuming the blood of other creatures pulls me into my monstrous form. I would imagine the consumption of human blood would cause something quite worse to occur."

"You're not even tempted? Not even a little?" _Shut up Newt, shut up! Are you_ trying _to get him to bite you?_

"Thought and deed are two separate evils." Gottlieb says. His tongue flicks out to wet his lower lip. "I promise, I have no plans to assault you."

"Good to hear," Newt replies. "Yeah. So you said the barrier is only open once a year? I'm assuming we're past that point..." And the implication hits him like a hard punch to the stomach.

Gottlieb frowns, shifting his weight on the couch and twisting his hands together. "It has closed by now, yes. Likely mere hours after you landed here. I… I am sorry. I think you are trapped here with me until the next opening."

"Fuck," Newt says, flopping sideways onto the couch cushions. He presses his palms into his eyes and kicks the edge of the couch. "Fuck!"

"You shan't perish for want of anything," Gottlieb says, voice soft, soothing in all the ways he can't truly be, because he's just told Newt that he's trapped on an island in the middle of the sea for a year with no internet, no way to contact his loved ones, no indoor plumbing, and only a vampire for company. "I do not need food to live, but I enjoy gardening, raising animals. A well in the courtyard provides more than enough fresh water for drinking, cooking or bathing. The cellars are filled with all sorts of spirits, as well as building materials and fabrics for construction or clothing. I'm sure you might enjoy studying this place as much as I have. For instance, I've concluded that the island exists in a reduced time state, where things age more slowly…"

Newt doesn't want to hear it, his mind flooding with panic. He doesn't want to study this place; he doesn’t want to be here at all. He wants to go home, see his dad and his uncle, accept a job offer. He wants his stable WiFi connection and the coffee from the shop down the street from his apartment, and his guitar and his Xbox and his record collection. What will happen when he doesn't come back from his trip? Will everyone believe he's dead? Will they wait for him for a year? And what if he can't get off the island next year? What if he waits another year? What if he's stuck here for five years? For ten? For the rest of his life?

He begins to cry -- first, just small, sniffling noises as he curls in on himself, and then louder, deeper sobs, wracking through his whole body as he buries his face into his knees.

"Oh..." he hears Gottlieb say.

A long silence settles over the room, interrupted only by Newt’s sobbing. And really, what did Newt expect? Gottlieb's a proper Englishman from the mid nineteenth century; they don't tend to do displays of emotion.

But then, Newt feels the couch next to him shift, and a hand rests against the small of his back, stroking up and down. Newt leans back against the touch, finding the top of his head brushes against Gottlieb's thigh, and opens his eyes, looking up.

Gottlieb is upside down from this view, but his expression is soft, kind, entirely un-vampiric.

"I felt the same way as you do now," Gottlieb says. "I spent months, nay, years drinking myself into oblivion. Strangely, I lost all of my tolerance for alcohol after the change. I needed no more than two glasses to get perfectly soused. On the bright side, it means the reserves stay quite stocked," Gottlieb muses with a smile.

Newt lets out a wet chuckle, closing his eyes again, and he can't help pressing his head into Gottlieb's thigh; the physical connection helps ease the pain just a tad.

"I was alone here for so long," Gottlieb says, hand stroking circles into Newt's back. "Entirely by myself. I shall endeavor to make sure you are not."

"What's your name, dude? Your actual name?" Newt asks, taking a shaky breath. "I can't call you Dr. Gottlieb for a year."

"Hermann," he replies.

"Okay," Newt says. "Hermann. Thanks for not eating me when you found me in the woods."

Hermann lets out a quiet laugh. "And deny myself the pleasure of your company after years of isolation? Wouldn't dream of it.”


	3. Chapter 3

Once Newt has calmed himself down, Hermann shows him the rest of the castle: a tall, swooping thing out of a romance novel, walls mottled in green mold from slick sea spray. Three stories high at its peak, it’s crowned by a jutting tower that can see over the tallest of trees out to the sea surrounding the island. Inside, the long hall that leads to the library also connects to several other rooms. Hermann shows him the drawing room, a small dining room connected by a small hallway to the kitchen and larder, and a larger dining room for hosting parties.

Newt can’t quite pinpoint the era of the décor; it seems as if there’s a mixture of pieces that run the gamut from late medieval, all the way to early Victorian, which should be impossible, given the circumstances Hermann described for his appearing here. Perhaps it’s just a part of the magic of this castle, changing and morphing to provide certain amenities based on the expectations of the newest inhabitant. Given that hypothesis, who knows how long this place has been here, or whether the vampire that Hermann met was even the first.

Despite its likely age and the lack of a supportive staff to care for the castle, there isn't a speck of dust or tarnish on any of the ornate china, the golden candelabras, the smooth oak furniture, the plush fabric couches. Newt draws a finger across a table set with teacups in the drawing room, and it pulls away clean.

"Are you, like, super into cleaning?" Newt asks as Hermann lights a torch set into a wall mount, then lifts it from the holder and hands it off to Newt. "This place is spotless."

"An effect of my cursed existence, it would seem," Hermann says, shaking his head. "You've felt the stillness surrounding this place, have you not? "

"Yeah, scared the shit out of me in the woods. It's not natural," Newt says, shivering at the memory.

"Obviously," Hermann replies, setting Newt with a look of exasperation, and Newt smirks. Exasperated Hermann is... well, kind of a cute. In a let-me-remind-you-that-he's-a-cursed-demonic-creature-of-the-night sort of way. Still.

"Any theories as to the reason behind it?"

"Well, I tend to attribute it to the vampirism, rather than any sort of witchy spell. Nothing in my presence tends to age very quickly. Dust never accumulates, rust does not occur. If you'll notice when walking outside, the weeds do not spring up closer than several hundred feet from the walls. I tend a garden, but it's a fair mile down the path because my first attempt near the castle left me with seeds that looked freshly planted five months after going in the ground. I am unaware of the effects on other humans, but I expect that if you were to remain in my presence, you would cease to age as well."

"Freaky," Newt replies. "So, then, how old are you?"

Hermann's steps make no sound, so the door creaking open as he pushes it is a sharp sound that echoes down the corridor.

"You said it’s 2019. What is the month?"

"June, last time I checked."

"Then I have just turned the youthful age of two-hundred and eight." Hermann sighs, a rueful smile on his lips.

"Holy mother of pearl, Batman..." Newt shakes his head at Hermann's confused look. "Sorry, definitely two references you aren't getting. So, you were thirty when you got here?"

Hermann nods. "This expedition was a birthday gift. Likely mother's doing, as father would've never willingly paid without a bit of coaxing." He stills at the edge of the threshold, and Newt sees his one hand grip the door tighter. Hermann’s eyes get this far off look, thoughts seemingly turned inwards.

_Oh_ , Newt thinks. _Oh, I've reminded him._

"I wonder how long they lasted," Hermann says, voice a low thrum, barely audible. "I had three sisters, you know. My father was quite old, near sixty. Mother had just turned fifty. But Karla was with her third child when I left. Maria had asked that I return with samples of sea creatures for her own private studies. Julia, she'd promised the first draft of her novel would be completed for my perusal upon my return..."

"My dad just turned sixty," Newt says, stepping closer. "My uncle is coming up on his sixty-fifth. And Monica- my uh, mom, well, I never gave enough of a shit to ask."

Hermann glances back at him. "Siblings?"

Newt shakes his head. "No. Just me, and dad, and my uncle. Were you, um, married?"

"An eternal bachelor," Hermann replies, his lip quirking into a smile more pained than humorous. "Believe me when I say that it was not a failing left lacking comment upon. By father, especially."

"I don't have anybody either," Newt says, stepping closer. He should be scared, knowing what Hermann is, should be keeping his space, but he finds himself drawn, curious. "Haven't dated in a while. Girls or guys- right, sorry. That's a thing now," he continues, biting back a smile as he sees Hermann color a pretty awesome shade of rose. "People are a lot more open and tolerant. Women date women, men have relationships with men, people of indeterminate gender are all up in that mix too."

"I see," Hermann says, frowning, and for a moment, Newt thinks he's read the man wrong, because he's been getting 'repressed nineteenth century homosexual' vibes from this dude since _at least_ the hair petting occurrence. Yeah, sure masculine affection was seen as normalized in Hermann's time, blah blah blah. But Newt is also a thousand percent certain that straight history scholars have been reinterpreting and misinterpreting genuine queerness for centuries, and a dude doesn't just pet your head, stroke your back, and give you his coat, letterman jacket style, unless his 'affection' for the masculine is more than entirely platonic.

Plus, that whole 'eternal bachelor' shit? Definitely code.

"You aren't like, about to chain me back up in the dungeon because I'm a filthy sodomite, are you?" Newt asks, a teasing tone laced through his voice.

"No, Newt," Hermann says, holding a hand up. "Of course not. I apologize, I am still unused to your forthrightness on subjects that we tended to avoid speaking of. There is a tolerance then, for consorting between men?"

"For the most part," Newt says, shrugging. "There are still some bigoted assholes, but they're getting less numerous every day. So, if we got off this crazy, time bending island, you could probably live however you wanted to. I mean, if how you wanted to live is different than how you were living before."

Hermann tilts his head, and his eyes flicker up and down Newt's form. Newt imagines he looks pretty ridiculous right now, in a ragged t-shirt, ripped up jeans, barefoot, hair matted to his head, sweat and sea-soaked, covered in a nineteenth century waistcoat. Despite all that, he swears that Hermann looks at him with something like _desire_ , but then it's gone, and he's turning away, leaving Newt to pull the coat tighter around himself, covering up his lower half.

Another set of stairs lead up to the second floor, carpeted by more rugs, these intricately woven designs that mimic the waves of the sea outside.

"My quarters are to the right," Hermann says, gesturing to the door. "I do not require sleep, but occasionally enjoy reliving the sensation. The library is the only room in the castle besides the dungeons without windows, so I tend to stay there during the daylight hours. You are free to keep whatever schedule you choose, but I am more active during the evening and night hours, obviously."

"Yeah, so no coffins and dirt naps?"

Hermann snorts. "No. Not everything about vampiric lore is true. I have yet to test whether a stake through the heart is an effective means of death, but I'd ask you to avoid trying it, yes?"

"Yeah, sure, no problemo. So, am I getting upgraded from stone floors and straw for a bed?"

"Yes. Here is your room," Hermann says, moving to the doorway directly across from his own. "I took the liberty of inspecting the space, as I have not had the need to use it, but please let me know if anything is amiss."

He opens the door, and Newt steps inside. To the right is a massive four poster bed, draped in brilliant red curtains and a deep umber coverlet, half a dozen pillows at the headboard. To the left is a small sitting area, two armchairs with a tea table between, and another fireplace, lit with a merrily roaring blaze. To the left of that, against the inner wall is a large dresser and armoire set, with some manner of clothing hanging off the cabinet door. There are bookshelves against the back wall, and another large window in the center, draped with a curtain of the same color as the poster fabric. In the center of the room, a large gilded tub sits waiting, filled with steaming water.

"Oh baby," Newt says, waistcoat sliding from his shoulders. Hermann expertly catches it as Newt moves to the water, sliding his hands beneath the surface and groaning at the delicious heat. "Fuck, is there soap?"

"There," Hermann says, pointing to the small table positioned next to the tub. A bar sits in a porcelain holder, and next to that is a smaller bowl filled with water, a short-haired, stout brush, a cup filled with shaving cream, a small mirror, and an honest-to-god, vintage shaving razor.

"Shit, would you believe I've never used one of these before?" Newt says, picking up the razor, careful of the blade. "I'm always worried that I'm going to Sweeny Todd myself and end up in somebody's mincemeat pie."

"Let us hope your hand is steadier than you presume," Hermann replies. "I suppose, if you require, I will teach you how to use one. For now, please use whatever materials you can. I have set out a clothing set, if it is too large, I can tailor it to fit your needs."

"You're pretty handy," Newt says, putting down the razor. "Gardening, sewing, cooking. Was that normal for a genteel Englishman to know in the mid-1800s?"

Hermann smirks. "I am far more knowledgeable in domestic pursuits than when I first came here. The library has books of all sorts, and when one is alone for many years, one picks up some new skills."

"Gotcha. Um, I still want to fix my things, though. I'm not sure what you guys considered proper underwear, but I'm gonna need something like boxers or briefs. Something, yanno, protective."

"You may instruct me in what those articles of clothing are afterwards," Hermann says, lying his waistcoat across the chair of the desk that sits along the other side of the inner wall. "I shall leave you to it. Ah, one other thing. I would ask that you do not open any of the other curtains in this castle except for those." He motions towards the window. "I would rather not have a surprising, painful end because of an accidental exposure, but this is your room, and you might do as you like in here."

Newt nods, even though he doesn’t really plan on taking Hermann up on the offer. He'd rather not lose the only other human-ish connection to reality that he has on this lonely little island. Besides, without Hermann's accumulated knowledge and vampiric abilities, he's probably screwed. Or, now that he thinks of it, he’d be the next vampire… yeah, no point in taking chances just for a little sunlight.

As Hermann closes the door. Newt rips off his clothes and practically dives into the water, letting out a pleased gasp and submerging himself fully into the depths. He can feel the salt dissolving off of his skin, his head, and the tufts of matted hair around his cock grow soft again. Thank _god_ , walking with that scratching against his groin was getting unbearable.

He surfaces and lies back against the tub, snatching up the soap. It's scentless but wonderfully slippery and cleansing. He lathers it over himself, into his hair, missing his own shampoo but so happy to feel clean and somewhat human again.

After he finishes washing up, he closes his eyes, sinking down into the water until the only thing above the surface is the top of his head down to his nose. Between the chill of the sea, the chill of running soaking wet through the woods, and the chill of the dungeon, he hasn't felt truly warm in hours.

_I wonder how he warmed up the water_ , Newt thinks, blowing bubbles out through his lips, listening to the silence of the room, the water dripping off the tip of his nose, the distant sounds of the woods out the window. He can hear a breeze far off, but the curtains don't rustle, just like Hermann said, the air is still, unmoving, but for the breath coming out of his nose.

_Does he breathe?_ Newt thinks, resting his head against the side of the tub. _I don't remember if he does. Maybe he doesn't need it, like sleep. Maybe he just does it to feel human_.

How must it feel, this forced hermitic existence? Living for hundreds of years with only yourself, the woods and the sea for company? How the man hasn't gone completely bonkers yet is amazing.

_Maybe he is nuts_ , Newt thinks. _Maybe he's just really good at hiding it._

But Hermann doesn't seem mad. Just lonely. And a little repressed.

Newt shivers when he remembers the way Hermann looked at him, a definite desire in his gaze, like the first drops of water of a man who has gone so long without a drink.

_Fuck, Newt, you've seduced a lot of people in your life, but trying to woo a vampire could be your stupidest move yet._

The water dissolves the aches and pains from his bones, and Newt finds himself drifting, more exhausted than he'd first imagined. Despite sleeping for hours and hours, he once again dozes off, and when he wakes, the water has cooled considerably, and there's a knock at the door.

Newt grips the edge of the tub, yawning and levering himself up. "Yeah, I haven't drowned, promise," he calls, then drops farther into the water when the door opens.

Hermann's head pokes through, and his eyes widen. "Apologies, I assumed you were finished by now. It's been two hours."

Newt rubs his fingers together and frowns. "No wonder I'm so pruny. I'll, um, be out in a second."

"May I take those?" Hermann says, motioning to Newt's discarded clothes. "I'll launder them and return them post haste."

"You don't have to- I can wash my own clothes."

"How do people wash clothing in your era?"

"Er... stick em in a big machine that washes them for you." Newt grins. "Yeah, okay. Go ahead."

Hermann slips into the room, his movements so precise and exacting. No human moves with this much grace, and Newt finds himself gripping the edge of the tub, lower lip parted and breathing quietly, so quietly, as if he doesn't want to disturb the calmness.

Hermann meets his eyes as he leans down to pick up the articles of clothing. Newt swallows, shuts his mouth, and wills himself to not break eye contact.

It's hard, though. Hermann's stare is... unsettling.

Newt realizes Hermann hasn't blinked, maybe hasn't blinked in the entire time Newt has seen him. When he stands back up, he looms, frikin _looms_ , and Newt swears he can see the glint of a sharp tooth peeking from between his wide lips. As Newt looks closer, he can see a deep undertone set behind his pupils: a hint of umber. Newt finds himself pushing up out of the water, until his chest is clear off the surface. His mouth is dry, his breathing soft. Goosebumps prickle down his arms, the cold evening air making his nipples harden. He can't look away, no, he doesn't _want_ to. Hermann's eyes are windows to the vast depths of the ocean, and he'll just, he'll fall right in, drown in them. Everything’s alright, nothing's wrong, just relax, _he'll take care of you..._

Slowly, he finds himself tilting his head to the side, exposing the clean, pale skin of his throat.

" _Stop it, Newt,_ " Hermann says, and the words hit Newt like a punch in the chest. He falls back into the bath water, gasping as it splashes up over the rim. There's a ringing in his forehead. He jams his eyes shut, gripping his head.

The past ten seconds of action come back to him. He wonders what brought that on, what possibly could have compelled him to _act_ in such a way.

A jolt of fear flickers in his chest. _I was offering myself_ , Newt thinks, shivering. _Oh god, does he have some kind of hold over me?_

Newt hears the door shut, and he opens his eyes. Hermann is gone. Just as well. Newt looks down beneath the surface of the water and lets out a groan.

He's painfully aroused.


	4. Chapter 4

Newt takes care of the issue at hand ( _hah, at hand_ ), and certainly doesn't imagine a pale Englishman while he's doing it. Afterwards, he climbs out of the tub, finds the towel draped over the bar beside the tub, and dries himself off.

The clothing Hermann has hung up for him looks, well, period appropriate. He figures out the undergarments, a long, buttoned pair of drawers that go down past his knees, surprisingly softer than he'd expected. The button-down shirt is lengthier than a modern one, but buttons just the same. The trousers scratch, brown woolen things that would be terribly hot for an American summer, but for England in the dead of night, they're quite fine. The vest is grey, and there's a chain attached to the breast pocket that leads to a weighted pocket watch tucked inside. When Newt presses the latch, the cover pops open, and the time inside reads 11:35.

Everything hangs just a little too loose on him. He imagines that Hermann found the smallest garments he could; he isn't the tiniest of guys, but certainly these can't be what Hermann wears on a regular basis. If Hermann can tailor as well as he's implied, with just a few slight tucks and stitches, Newt will have a proper gentleman's attire.

He hikes up the trousers and leaves the room. There's a tasty smell wafting through the corridor, and Newt follows his nose down the staircase, past the drawing room, into the small dining room. There are two table settings at the rectangular oak table, one on either end, with two chairs set behind them. It’s curious that Hermann has them seated the farthest distance across from one another, as if he hadn't had his hands all over Newt just hours ago.

_Fucking nineteenth century repression, god damn_ , Newt thinks, walking past towards the kitchen door.

When he steps into the kitchen, he sees Hermann bent over a stove, stirring something in a pot. His vest is shucked over a nearby chair, his sleeves rolled up. The glove remains buttoned around his left hand, but without his shirt cuff covering his wrist, Newt can see the angry edges of the burn peeking beneath the fabric. Hermann must hate looking at it, must hate the reminder that for all the power he's gained, a simple thing like the sun would destroy him.

"Do I look alright?" Newt asks as Hermann turns to face him. "I think I got everything buttoned correctly."

Hermann glances over at him and his hand stills mid-stir as he looks Newt up and down.

"It's just fine," Hermann says after an oddly long pause, stepping over. He tugs the vest down a bit, twisting the fabric, measuring the loose extra bunches of Newt's shirt sleeves. Newt stays still, relishing the little touches, the attention he's being paid. He keeps his eyes focused anywhere other than Hermann's, not wanting to experience that strange compelling thrall that he felt in the bath.

"What are you cooking?" Newt asks. Hermann steps back and pulls two bowls from a nearby cabinet. He dunks a ladle into the pot, filling each with the steaming liquid.

"Vegetable soup," Hermann says. "You still look entirely too chilly for comfort."

"It's this country," Newt says, following him out of the kitchen, back to the dining room. "I'm not used to June weather being this mild. No wonder you guys always wore wool."

"Yes, well, I have visited America, and it's a bloody sweatbox. I much prefer cool English summers to dripping through my clothes in the Philadelphia humidity,” Hermann answers with a sniff.

"We don't cover up everything in the middle of the heat," Newt says, sliding into the chair as Hermann places the bowl in front of his setting. "People expose their legs and arms. Sometimes even their shoulders or their stomachs.”

Hermann takes his own seat. "And I suppose this is considered normal?"

"Well, if you're in a business meeting, no. But if you're gonna be out in the heat all day for a casual reason, then yeah, sure. I was hoping to hit the beach on this trip, actually, just not how I ended up doing it..."

"Yes, your ferry. You were crossing the Channel?"

"I'm touring the continent - _was_ touring the continent," Newt says, looking down at the soup. He takes a bite, swallows it as an excuse to swallow down the sadness welling up inside him at the thought. "Yeah, I'd just started. I was planning on hitting the beaches around the Mediterranean. They’ve got some of the most beautiful waters in the world, and I was going to scuba dive with the marine life."

"I am not sure what a 'scuba dive' is," Hermann replies. He stirs the soup with his spoon, not making any effort to pretend he's eating it. "But I am sure that, once we find a way to get you out of here, you can do all of those things."

"No, if I get out of here, I need to go home and get a _job_ ," Newt says, stabbing a bit of potato with the tip of his spoon. "I'm going to have up and vanished for a year. All those job offers I had waiting will have gone to other people. I can probably find something to do, but the economy is shitty enough without losing a year of post-grad work experience."

"What positions were you considering for employment?" Hermann asks. "What exactly does a man with six PhDs do with himself in the twenty-first century?"

"That's what I'm trying to figure out," Newt replies. "I've got options, but I'll have to pick something and stick with it. Academia would be the safe choice. I could get a professorship and maybe they'd give me a grant to work on my own projects. Honestly though? Being a professor sounds entirely too _boring_. I don't want to sit at a desk and teach, I want to get out there and _discover_." Newt glances over at him. "You ever feel like you were born in the wrong place? Or time? Or maybe dimension?"

"Often," Hermann says. He's abandoned the spoon to the table, hands folded across the top, leaning forward. "Your modern world sounds terribly exciting. I think I should like to see it. Would you tell me more about it?"

Newt does. He gives Hermann a crash course in the last two hundred years of world politics, starting with the rise of the Industrial era, and the fall of Britain as the major world power. He covers both World Wars and the horrific outcomes of their genocides and chemical warfare, the ending of slavery, and the beginnings of various civil rights movements. He explains the progression of technology after the Babbage Analytical Engine and Ada Lovelace's realization of computation machines, how transistors and processing units grew smaller and smaller and allowed for all sorts of technological innovations, down to the foreign object Hermann had found in Newt's knapsack, called a 'mobile phone.’

The last dredges of the soup grow cold, the hours pass. Despite the long explanation he’d given Hermann, Newt knows there is so much more that he needs to understand. The myriad developments in each of their respective scientific fields, the structure of social and governmental systems, and a hell of a lot of instruction in social norms and social consciousness. He’d rather not see the guy get decked the first time he steps on the street and calls somebody a racial term he doesn't know is now considered a slur.

For now, the hour is late, and despite having slept for most of the previous day, Newt finds himself growing drowsy, resting his elbow on the table, cupping his cheek against his hand.

"You should sleep," Hermann says, coming to take the bowl from him. "You're still recovering from the shipwreck, and the fright I gave you."

"It was good soup, Herms," Newt says. The nickname gives Hermann pause, and Newt gives him a sleepy smile as the other man stares at him. "What, you guys didn't have nicknames?"

"Only to friends and lovers," Hermann replies. "You have known me for less than forty-eight hours."

"I make friends quick," Newt says, yawning. "And I told you to call me Newt."

"That you did," Hermann says. "Quite insistently."

Newt laughs. "I think you need a friend after nearly two-hundred years by yourself. Unless you've got a volleyball with a bloody handprint around here that I don't know about. Sorry, another reference."

"I've never had many friends, even before I came to this place," Hermann says.

He moves to pass, but Newt reaches out and clasps his wrist. Hermann twitches and nearly drops the bowl. He doesn’t meet Newt’s gaze, forcing his eyes forward as if afraid to.

After a moment, Newt lets go.

"So, friends," Newt says, pillowing his head on the table. "Together, we'll figure out a way off this island."

"Yes. Together. Now go to bed. I don't need you drooling all over the tabletop. I still have to clean up spills."

Newt smiles against his arm. "Give me a minute. I'm comfortable."

He listens to Hermann clear off the rest of the silverware. The part of him with some semblance of manners wants to get up to help, but he's so very warm and relaxed, and safe - he feels _safe_. The atmosphere between them has changed, uncertainty giving way to a newfound security.

"Newt," he hears, Hermann's voice low and smooth near his ear. " _Go to bed_."

It's the way he says it. Some soothing, tingling effect in Newt's brain, like a massage for his corpus callosum. It makes listening so much easier, makes him want to stand up and trudge his way down the hall, up the stairs. He sheds his clothing over the back of the chair, and Hermann's waistcoat is still there, still holding Hermann’s scent. Newt takes the coat, wraps it about himself, and crawls under the covers, dressed only in the odd drawers and the coat.

Newt falls asleep quickly. He doesn't hear the slight creak of the door, see face glancing through the crack, only but for a moment, to make sure he's gone to sleep. Newt doesn't hear the door close, nor see the creature padding away down the hall, pacing through the corridor. He isn’t privy to the vampire’s thoughts, Hermann’s mind occupied by the sight of Newt wrapped in his coat, remembering the hand on his wrist in the dining room, wondering and worrying at how this newfound mortal reacts to his presence (bewitched, enthralled) and his words (not meant to be spoken as commands, but carried out as if under a spell).


	5. Chapter 5

The first month proves the most difficult adjustment for Newt. He gets rashes from the wool clothing, which thankfully, Hermann has ointments that can heal. His sleep schedule falls to pieces, whacked out to hell. His body wants to stay awake through the daytime, but because Hermann is much more active after the sun has gone down, Newt finds himself staying up later and later, until he rises with the moon and sleeps with the sun. He's sleeping more anyway: the lack of electronic stimulation makes everything feel slower, and a lot of Hermann's books are filled with outdated information that do not hold his interest for very long.

Newt first spots the cane – or ‘walking stick’ as Hermann refers to it - a few mornings after arriving. He goes to the library at high noon, and finds Hermann limping across the floor, much noisier than normal, the smoothly lacquered wood capped by a polished brass handle.

"My power grows and wanes with the sun," Hermann explains when he sees Newt staring in confusion. "I sustained a rather terrible injury as a child, and the limp comes back as the sun goes up."

"Does it hurt?" Newt asks.

Hermann nods. "Yes, but… I like that. It reminds me of being human."

Newt bathes as regularly as he can, but here it’s a goddamn process. It involves dragging water from the well up to the tub, and then heating the water with two low braziers, until it's steaming, which takes at least an hour. He allows himself the luxury – and puts up with the hassle -- twice a week, but most evenings find him pulling up a bucket of water, dumping it over his head, cursing and shrieking, and lathering himself in soap as best he can. The ground floor hallway is across from the well, and Newt wonders if Hermann can hear him yelling, is ever tempted to peek. But he never does, even if the sun has set. Hermann has already shown himself to be the type of gentleman who wouldn't take advantage of Newt's vulnerable moments of nudity.

Even if Newt kind of wants him to.

He knows he'll never get used to the lack of plumbing. Hermann introduces him to the concept of a 'chamber pot,' and Newt politely tells him to fuck off, he'll dig a ditch and use the great outdoors, because that's where it's going to end up anyway. Newt explains the concept of toilet paper, and Hermann laughs over the 'waste of paper' that constitutes.

"Really, what do people in your era have against some water and a sponge?" Hermann asks.

"Fucking quilted three ply, that's what," Newt replies.

Then Newt finds out that, because Hermann doesn't regularly need to eat, he doesn't regularly need to consider the logistics of waste disposal. The bastard. So, Newt digs a ditch and gets used to pissing in bushes. If he ever gets off this island, he's buying one of those fancy Japanese toilets, with the heated seats, the built-in bidet, and the cheery noises.

The technological disconnection pains Newt worst of all. Newt grew up with the Internet, constantly connected to others across the world at a touch of his fingers. He keeps his dead phone tucked next to the pocket watch in his breast pocket, taking it out, swiping the screen, willing it to turn back on. It's probably waterlogged, and obviously he's got nowhere to plug it in, even if it's not completely drowned in sea water. Nevertheless, the weight of it is a comfort, a reminder that the outside world still exists, and that he's going to have to find a way back to it.

~

A week into his arrival on this strange island, Newt finds himself scratching at the coarse stubble that's accumulated on his face after going so long without a proper shave. He hadn't touched the antique shaving razor, even though Hermann had left it out for him, insisting that "I have no need for it, Newton." The reassurance didn’t change the fact that Newt tended to get twitchy and nervous around sharp objects, especially ones that were designed to touch very tender and delicate parts of his anatomy. Ageless genteel vampires don't need to get rid of facial hair, but Newt comes from a long line of shaggy men, and he's not a fan of the mountain man look, especially on himself. Finally, a week in, he relents and snatches the razor up. But he doesn't take the blade to his throat himself. Oh no.

"Teach me," Newt says to Hermann, holding the knife out. "You said you would."

They're in Newt's bedroom, Newt called Hermann up here, and has already set up the cup of shaving cream, the brush and a bowl of water to clean the blade. A chair sits next to the table, everything is set up.

"I regret the offer immensely," Hermann says, frowning at the outstretched hand. "One of the few joys of this monstrous form is a lack of need for such sorts of grooming."

"I will literally decapitate myself if I try, Herms. The biology department back in my grad school days wouldn't let me do dissections without supervision. I'm a very easy bleeder." Fuck, maybe telling a _vampire_  that isn't a good idea. "Please? Pretty please?"

Hermann simply sighs and takes the razor.

"Sit," he says. "Before I change my mind."

Newt grins and plops into the chair. It's a short seat, only up to his shoulders, so he can lean his head back quite far, giving Hermann easy access to all the bits of him that need grooming.

Hermann snaps the clean white towel lying on the table out and tucks it into Newt's shirt.

"I must say, I am surprised you asked this of me," Hermann says, picking up the horsehair brush. He swabs up some of the shaving cream and begins brushing it over Newt's beard. Newt squirms a bit; the brush tickles, he's more used to the spray-in-a-can sort of affair.

"Why?" Newt asks. "You're the expert on living habits of the nineteenth century, and I don't see any fucking safety or electric razors lying around here."

"Electricity, wasted on shaving, good lord," Hermann says. "Lie still."

Newt keeps his body as frozen as he can, swallowing as Hermann leans over him, the razor glinting in the light cast by the flickering fire.

"You are an intriguing sort of man, Newton," Hermann says, lowering the blade. The metal presses to his jaw, and Newt breathes through his nose as Hermann drags it across the side... the first pass of hair coming clean off Newt's face.

"Yeah? How so?" Newt asks as Hermann washes the blade off in the bowl. He sees his own reflection in the steel as Hermann lifts it up, a warped, distorted thing.

"You know that I subsist on the lifeblood of other creatures, and yet you come to me, bearing a blade, asking that I take it to your throat." Hermann's second pass of the knife is just as clean as the first. Old tricks die hard. "Most mortal men would not risk such a temptation."

Newt follows the knife with his eyes, watching it splash into the bowl again. "You said you wouldn't hurt me," he says, chest heaving harder, Suddenly the room is so much warmer than before.

"I did," Hermann answers. He drags the knife in short strokes now, shaving off the sides of Newt's beard. Newt's hands grip the hard, rounded arms of the chair, and he's torn between looking at the knife, back to Hermann's face, to the corner, back to the knife. A bead of sweat trickles down his back, and a nervous knot is building in the center of his chest.

"So, should I be worried?” Newt forces out in a tone much more relaxed than he feels right now.

Hermann says nothing for a time, continues to scrape lines of hair off the sides of Newt's face. He's got a steady hand, a gentle touch, nudging Newt's face this way and that. His eyes stay dark, brown, no hint of red. His lips are set in a concentrated frown, no sign of fangs peeking through.

"Tip your head back farther," Hermann says. "I've still your jaw to do."

Newt feels the blood rushing, thumping against his skull as he stretches his neck out, throat exposed to the cool evening air. Hermann shifts around; having stood to either side of Newt to shave his jaw, he slides around to stand behind Newt, holding the knife aloft above him.

Only now does Newt swallow, only now does he feel the faintest bit of fear. Hermann towers over him unnaturally, and their eyes meet as Hermann leans over him, face impassive.

Hermann lowers the blade again, and Newt feels it press to the edge of his throat. He doesn't dare swallow, because any movement will jar the blade and risk breaking the skin. He meets Hermann's eyes, and they are frozen for a moment in time.

"Why do you trust me, Newton?" Hermann asks, voice a low, slithering thing in Newt's ear. "We have known each other for less than a fortnight. I am a monstrous thing out of the nightmares of men. Any sane individual would not have put themselves into the position you now find yourself in. I don't understand it. Tell me why."

Newt doesn't breathe, doesn't blink, doesn't move. 

"Newton. _Tell me_ ," Hermann says, though it comes out like a hiss.

"Because you said you wouldn't hurt me," Newt says. The words come out of his mouth, but he doesn't know where they come from. His brain is crackling with a tingling haze, just like the bath, just like after their first meal. "You won't hurt me, and you won't leave me alone."

Hermann's eyebrows knit inwards. "That's... that's all?"

Newt licks his lip, cracks a smile, and lets the words tumble out.

"You'd be surprised how few people have ever promised me that."

They stare at one another for another long moment.

Then the razor flicks up, and Hermann drags it through the hair beneath Newt's chin, resuming his ministrations.

~

"We're going to build a boat," Newt says to Hermann mid-July. "There's naval documentation in this library, blueprints, and plenty of wood on the island. I saw the wood axe out back, and I bet there's ship-building equipment in the cellar. We can at least make a raft and a sail, but I'm hoping we can learn how to make planks and bend and nail them, apply sealant, maybe actually construct something seaworthy. Honestly, I don’t know why you haven't tried before."

"My naval training is, to put it bluntly, minimal," Hermann admits. "And the waves summoned by the storm are unnaturally powerful and difficult to navigate, even for me." He turns and mumbles something else, something Newt can't quite hear, but he pretends to have said nothing when Newt questions him on it.

Newt takes an axe to a tree and fells it, almost crushing himself in the process. The brutal work blisters his fingers, drives splinters into his palms, and Hermann tsks and tut-tuts over his red hands, insisting on covering them with a balm to heal.

"You're going to need to build some strength," Hermann says, rubbing the ointment between Newt's fingers. Newt bites back a moan at how nice the cooling gel -- and Hermann's hands -- feel on his skin. “Your hands don’t appear fit for any kind of manual labor.”

"I'm a modern sort of geek," Newt says, watching Hermann's fingers sliding over his skin, working the ointment into them. "We stay indoors and give our brain muscles the workouts."

"The laziness of modernity astounds me," Hermann replies. "Sitting in temperature-controlled vehicles to journey a short few miles, going from temperature-controlled building to temperature-controlled building. Do any of you enjoy the outdoors?"

"Humans are very good at manufacturing their maximum level of comfort, even to their own detriment," Newt says. "If you'd grown up in my time, you'd be pale from a lack of Vitamin D, not the Dracula business. _Ow, fuck!_ "

Newt pulls his hand back, and a bead of blood wells on the tip of a finger, where Hermann has pulled out a rather large splinter.

Hermann's nostrils flair, his pupils constrict at the scent of blood, and he lets out a heavy breath, turning his head away.

"You should leave," Hermann says. His fangs are splitting their way out of his gums.

But Newt can't move, doesn’t _want_ to move. He finds himself frozen in place, that familiar tingling sensation curling through his brain.

"You can taste it, if you want," Newt murmurs. He lifts his finger up. "I don't mind."

When he looks back, he wonders if it's a pheromone thing, if Hermann is releasing something when he transforms that disrupts Newt's fight or flight instinct, twisting it, making him run towards the danger rather than away from it. That would explain the reaction Newt had in the woods, and in the bath, and how he's offering his blood now, transfixed and unable to look away.

Hermann's hand snaps out, gripping Newt's wrist. His nails dig into Newt's skin, and Newt shudders. He knows it should hurt, but it doesn't, simply blossoms into a deep sort of pleasure that rocks his body.

" _Leave me_ ," Hermann growls, letting go of his wrist. The words have Newt stumbling over his feet, hands covered in balm slipping on the leather couch where they're seated, until finally he regains his balance and flees the room.

Out in the hall, he presses into the wall, panting and slamming his head back, one hand shooting down to press against his groin, achingly aroused once more. He forces himself to walk the rest of the way down the hall, out the front door, dropping into an alcove near the entrance.

The rain is pouring overhead, and Newt leans against the building, getting himself off in a half-dozen smooth strokes, cursing as Hermann's name rolls off his tongue at the peak of his orgasm.

_What is wrong with me?_ Newt thinks, dropping to a squat and digging his hands into his hair. _Why does he have this effect on me?_

Newt knows enough about vampire lore to understand the concept of a 'thrall,' but he really, really doesn't like thinking that he could possibly be affected such that he falls to being defenseless against Hermann’s command. Sure, so far, the guy hasn't done anything untoward, but Newt doubts that Hermann is entirely in control of himself when the vampirism comes out. Besides, Newt's behavior can't be helping Hermann resist him, resist the temptation to...

_To what?_ Newt thinks. _What would he do to me, if he could? Would he pin me down and drain me dry? Would he only take a taste? Maybe he'd decide I make a better meal than a companion. Maybe I'd end up in that dungeon again, waiting for him to come and use me to sate his hunger... Would it feel good? Would I react like I just did now? Would I_ want _him to use me like that?_

He's so fucked, so fucked in the head, wondering these questions. He doesn't think Hermann wants to hurt him. He has to trust that Hermann does want to help him leave this place, and wants to leave it as well. Otherwise, what hope does he have? If Hermann really wanted to keep him as a thrall, to lock him away and twist his mind until Newt wanted nothing more than Hermann's fangs in his throat... he could probably do it.

That thought terrifies Newt more than any other.

Newt has to figure out how to get of this island, before the sane part of his brain vanishes, and decides he doesn't want to anymore; before he decides that he’s perfectly fine being under Hermann's control.


	6. Chapter 6

"I see you've found the telescope," Hermann says on a moonless night, greeting Newt in the tallest tower of the castle.

Newt has taken to exploring every nook and cranny of this castle, and he finally worked up the courage this evening to venture up the spiraling steps to the top of the roofless steeple. Like a character in a video game, he assumed that taking a trip off the beaten path would be worth the effort, and he's been rewarded with a gorgeous view of the galaxies of stars above, brighter and fuller than he's ever seen them, and a looking glass with which to observe them even better.

"I never get to see the sky like this. Light pollution makes them hard to view in populated areas," Newt says, leaning down to peer through the instrument. Thousands, of lights glimmer back at him, and he can pick out a few familiar constellations like Big and Little Dippers. Mostly, he's blown away by the sheer beauty of the wide, open sky above. "Dude, how do you just not, like, stare at the sky all night long?"

"I do, on occasion," Hermann replies, keeping a few feet of distance, folding his hands primly in front of his body. "I used to study the stars as a boy. When I first became trapped here, they were the one view that was not foreign and kept me connected to home."

"You know all sorts of constellations then, I'm assuming."

Hermann nods. "Dozens of them. Would you like to learn some? Those I suppose I should not presume ignorance on your part."

Newt chuckles, shaking his head. "No, you're right. I was always more focused on stuff down here on Earth. You, uh, wanna come over and share some of that knowledge of yours? I promise, I don't bite," he says with a playful wink.

Hermann snorts, but takes the humor in the manner it was meant. "Apologies," he says, drawing a few steps closer, until he stands right beside Newt. "I suppose I have kept myself distant the past few nights. My reaction to the smell of your blood unnerved me. I have never experienced such a... a craving," he finishes, tongue flicking out to swipe across his lower lip.

"Well, as long as I don’t end up bleeding again," Newt responds, adjusting the lens of the telescope, "there shouldn't be a problem. Right?" It's nice to know that Newt isn't the only one still thinking about the incident, although Hermann might be surprised to know what kind of _reaction_  Newt had.

"We shall proceed under that assumption, until such a time as it is disproved," Hermann says, nodding in agreement. He rests a hand atop the brass instrument, raising an eyebrow. "May I?"

Newt moves to the side as Hermann leans over the eyepiece, quickly adjusting the dial of the lens with an expert hand and swinging the whole of the telescope farther to the right. His lengthy, slim fingers cradle the brass as one might touch a lover; it's obvious the care he takes for the instrument, and Newt realizes sadly that if the lenses were ever to break, he would have no way of replacing them. No wonder he's so cautious.

"Do not touch," Hermann says, standing up and stepping back slightly. "Look through the viewfinder and direct your attention as I speak."

"Aye aye, captain," Newt says, leaning over and peering through the lens.

Hermann clears his throat and proceeds. "Direct your attention to the brightest light at the top of your view. That is Vega. It will serve as your reference point when you need to refocus your gaze. There are four stars beneath Vega, laid out in a skewed diagonal off towards the right. Together, these five make up the constellation Lyra, often represented by an eagle or vulture on constellation maps. It is one of the original constellations designated by Ptolemy..."

Hermann is unbelievably knowledgeable about the night sky. From Lyra, he directs Newt to pick out Deneb and explains the Cygnus constellation, drawing his attention below that to the Altair star (and as an _Assassin's Creed_  junkie, it's destined to be Newt's favorite) and the Aquila constellation. He lists off half a dozen more in the span of a few minutes, giving a short history of each celestial body or cluster of imagined connections.

"Finally, if you would direct your attention to the bottom of the viewfinder? Do you see that particularly bright looking object in the lower left?" Hermann asks.

"Yeah, wait... holy shit, is that _Mars?_ "

"Exactly, Newt. Our neighboring planet, named for the god of war and agriculture. The reddish tinge gives away its identity. Of course, we understand now that it differs in composition from the other objects in our view, but imagine being an ancient astronomer, peering upwards and wondering why that one is special. What makes it unique among its brethren? Consider now, that we remain bound to this planet, and yet have uncovered many of the mysteries of how these places operate, though we may never go there. Therein lies the beauty of mathematics, Newt. By understanding the fundamental laws of our plane of existence, discovering the mathematical foundations that order our reality, we may unlock the secrets of the universe, no matter how far the distance."

Newt shifts his view away from the stars back to Earth, to Hermann, who gazes upwards at the heavens, a mournful yearning in his eyes, as if he could leap off this island and ride the stars to freedom. Newt can’t forget that he’s hiding a monster beneath his skin, but in this moment, he seems so lost, so human in his vulnerability.

"Hey, uh, thanks for the lesson, dude," Newt says, drawing Hermann's gaze back to him. "I was never really into stargazing, but maybe that's because I never had the chance to see them like this. Or have someone as passionate as you teach me. Can we… do this again sometime?"

"I would be happy to educate you," Hermann replies, smiling, clearly pleased by the compliment. "A trade, perhaps, for all the knowledge of the world I will need to journey out into it?"

"Sure," Newt says, grinning back. "You explain the sky, and I'll explain everything else.

~

The summer continues, and Newt finds himself rising just after sunset, finds that he's getting used to walking down the paths of the island in torchlight, listening to the noises of the forest. He studies the ship-building books, chops down more trees, and his blisters form over into thick calluses. His muscles ache, until they don't anymore. He doesn't get a tan, but he knows his body is hardening to the work, feels the bulge of his belly vanishing. Hermann's expert sewing skills (and they are expert, the man wasn't lying) are called upon to cinch in his waistline.

Hermann can see in the darkness, so on moonless nights, when the torchlight barely cuts through the darkness, he guides Newt down the paths, a soundless body next to him, the barest touch on his shoulder. They work to cut the wood into planks, finding an old handsaw and dragging it across the downed trees to cut long strips that can be bent and stropped together to make the frame of the boat. Hermann keeps his shirt on, but Newt strips to bare skin, unable to stand the searing humidity. He avoids Hermann's eyes, knowing they're on him, hating himself for wanting and fearing to draw the vampire's gaze at the same time. Eventually, Hermann must work up the courage to ask about the myriad of Newt’s tattoos. Here, Newt is in comfortable territory, explaining the dozens of sea creatures sprawled across his skin like an ecosystem under his dermis. It gives them something to converse about, a new conversation topic to while the nights away on.

Hermann shows Newt his garden, sprouting carrots, cabbage, beets and tomatoes, gorgeous looking plants that sing between Newt's teeth as he bites into them, savoring flavors of a completely different complexity than the lax, wilted things he'd find in the grocery store. Hermann cooks them in every possible way for him, saying that while he rarely has the urge to eat, he enjoys the art of creating masterpieces from the raw materials. There are chickens that roam across the island, and Hermann slaughters one weekly for him, slathering them in herbs and butter and roasting them to mouth-watering completion. There is also plenty of venison throughout the weeks, which Newt finds gamy but filling. Newt knows Hermann is probably feeding on these creatures before killing them for Newt's consumption, and perhaps that's better, in a way. They both gain nourishment, and nothing goes to waste. Even the deer bones become tools for their ship building, and the chicken bones make half decent toothpicks or spears for fishhooks.

Newt tells him more about the 'future,' aka. the present day, and Hermann is a model student, picking up on concepts quickly and slotting them away for later, more in depth questioning. He seems fascinated by modern conveniences ("an oven that cooks with no flame? Impossible!"), astounded by scientific discoveries ("minuscule changes over thousands of generations due to adaptation... this Darwin fellow, did he perhaps read the works of Thomas Malthus?"), and generally pleased with social progress ("Quite right, to give women the vote. I was raised around very capable women, I do not mistake their suppressed brilliance for true dullness, weaker sex or no" (okay, so he's got a few areas to work on)). He hangs on every word, obsessively so, hours and hours of conversation about things that, to Newt, are mundane and commonplace. But to Hermann, Newt must be a lifeline, a bringer of new information into a world that has hung still and stale for nearly two centuries.

July passes into August, but Newt finds he's not quite as bored or lonely as he thought he'd be. Hermann's companionship proves something he can truly rely on. As Newt's lessons on modernity branch out to topics like the sciences and humanities, Hermann absorbs it all like a sponge, and Newt finds their conversations turn more and more toward intellectual debates. Hermann's a genius, as capable and brilliant as the history books make him out to be. His ability to process data astounds Newt, and his capacity for conversation continues to grow as he accumulates knowledge and incorporates it into later discussions, building upon each new idea Newt explains. Newt basically gives him a crash course in the modern education system, and having his six PhDs means that the knowledge he can share is broad in addition to deep. The hard sciences are, of course, the area he has the most expertise in, and Hermann's background in mathematics makes their conversations about graduate-level physics a breeze. But Newt also gives him a primer in psychology, sociology, and the state of modern philosophy. Even with all this work, Newt knows he’s forgotten a thousand other things, things that would continue to shock Hermann, a man out of time. A real-life Steve Rogers, even more out of his depth with a century less of world progress to draw from.

One evening, they're curled up in the library, Hermann nursing the same small glass of brandy he's been slowly sipping for the last hour, Newt is two drinks deep into this bitchin' dandelion cordial they found in the cellar. They're lying on opposite couches, the fire roaring merrily in the background. Newt stares up at the ceiling, painted in a gorgeous Renaissance-era scene of Greek gods and goddesses participating in a heavenly banquet. Apollo's chariot drives through the puffy clouds in the background, while a naked Dionysus pours wine in the foreground, grinning at a wry-mouthed, also nude Aphrodite. Mercury bows low before Zeus, and Poseidon and Hades confer in the lower corner.

"Man, Foucault could've written novels outta the that," Newt says, pointing up to Dionysus and Aphrodite. "Culturally relative sexual morality. I bet this ceiling was commissioned by some rich asshole patron as an excuse to stare up at tits all day and call it art."

"It was the style of the era, Newt." Hermann sighs, arm resting behind his head to cushion it. "And frankly, one of the few ways people would've been able to view nudity without risking the wrath of the Church."

"Michelangelo was gay, you know," Newt says, changing the subject. "It's why all of the women he painted and sculpted look like men with balloons slapped onto their chests. He had no real-life frame of reference. I bet the first and only time that dude ever saw a woman's boob was his own mother's."

Hermann wrinkles his face in disgust. "Must you be so gauche all the time? Do all people of your time truly talk about sexual matters in this way?"

Newt smirks, tipping back his head and raising the glass to his lips. "Like I said. Culturally relative sexual morality. You buttoned up and repressed yourselves. We learned from that and kind of took the opposite route." He drinks down a solid swig, Adam's apple bobbing up in an audible gulp, and his tongue is jutting out to lick a stray droplet that's hanging from his lower lip when he glances over to see Hermann staring -- _pointedly_.

"Something wrong?" Newt asks, putting the glass down on the tablet beside the couch. "Do I have something in my teeth?"

"No," Hermann says, a little too quickly, a little too emphatically. Newt grins as Hermann turns his head back to the book in his lap that's been on the same page for twenty minutes. "Just observing the lack of manners in twenty-first century men. You're proving quite the study."

Newt laughs and flips him off, but Hermann doesn't understand the hand gesture, and that leads to another discussion about modern ways to insult someone, with a side trip into obscenities shortly after.

"So, George Carlin, he was a comedian, and he had this bit, um, this routine he did on stage," Newt explains. The cordial sits heavy in his stomach, but there's a warm, hazy tingle in his brain. Hermann has lost the tension in his shoulders, and he's back to looking at Newt. "There are these seven words you're not allowed to say on television - you know, that box that shows moving pictures I told you about."

"Yes, Newt, I've moved far past the concept of a cathode-ray tube," Hermann says, kind of smugly. He's getting a big head with all the new things he knows about. Newt decides he’ll do a primer on quantum physics one of these days just to smack that big old ego down a peg.

"Sure, okay. So, these seven words. Shit, piss, fuck, cunt, cocksucker, motherfucker, and tits." Newt watches Hermann's face as he says them, pleased to see that the man doesn't even raise a brow. He's obviously gotten used to Newt's filthy sailor mouth at this point. "I mean, there are other curses, but those are the seven you weren't allowed to say. At least, that was his bit, I don't know if it's really true. But nowadays, that's not always true. All the prestige TV shows liberally curse, and even some of the cable networks let curse words loose after ten. Guess his bit doesn't really work anymore."

"So, vulgarity is just the norm?"

"I mean, you wouldn't go to church or your job and let loose on the obscenities," Newt says, covering a hiccup. "Ugh, this shit's getting to me. Um, but with your friends, sure, if the word's useful, then you use it. If you were a modern British dude, you'd probably be calling people cunts all the time. Or at least that's what they tell me. But in the states, you don't do that. It's considered very sexist- you remember what that means?"

"Degrading to women, I believe?"

"Got it in one, chief," Newt says, winking, then frowning. "Shit, now that I'm thinking about it, is using the word 'chief' culturally appropriative? Uh, that's when... well, that's a discussion for another day. Oh! And don't call people cocksuckers." Newt pushes up off the couch, wobbling until he grabs the arm. "Fuck. Yeah, don't do that, it's homophobic. And sexist too, now that I think about it."

"Homophobic. That means 'degrading to homosexuals,' correct?" Hermann asks, as Newt moves past his couch to the long side table where the cordial bottle sits.

"Yup. Basically, you're implying that people who suck cocks are lesser than." Newt tips more cordial into his glass, as careful as he can to not spill a drop. Somehow the carpet under his feet has gone unstained for hundreds of years, and he's not gonna be the asshole who changes that. "Like it's a bad thing to want to do that."

"And it isn't."

Newt snorts. "You ever had someone do that for you?"

"I cannot say I have, no."

"Well, it's a talent." Newt turns back, shuffling across the floor, glass far too full. He takes slow sips while he walks, the liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim. "Hell, people really oughta use cocksucker as a compliment. As someone who has had it done to him and done it himself, I'm telling you, cracking each dick's unique code is like listening against a tumbler lock and praying you hear the click. Shit!"

Newt's foot catches on the carpet. Before he can go tumbling to the ground, Hermann has shot up with inhuman speed, grabbing Newt's waist and hauling him upright. He pulls too hard, and Newt finds himself yanked against Hermann's chest, his forehead knocking against Hermann's chin.

"Shit," Newt mumbles, glancing up. "Thanks-"

He stops, mouth going dry. Hermann is so close, so close, and there's a dark gleam to his eyes, predatory, wanting. Newt thinks back to three seconds ago when he'd just implied that he'd had experience sucking another guy's dick, and he doesn't look down, but if Hermann isn't hard underneath those trousers, Newt will chew glass.

"You've spilled the cordial," Hermann says, too quiet, far too quiet. Newt finds that his breathing has slowed to a crawl, like every breath is a struggle to get out. He feels himself falling into those eyes, those round, wide pools, just like the first time, drawn by whatever thrall Hermann casts over him. The sensation it causes is warmer, hazier than the cordial's effects, but twice as pleasing. Newt's eyelids flutter of their own accord, and he finds himself twisting to face Hermann head-on, and Hermann is leaning in, oh god, please, please let him be-

A loud gong breaks the spell. The hall clock is striking five. They spring apart, Hermann standing straight, stoic and cold, while Newt grips the arm of the couch and catches up on the air he's fallen behind on in the last thirty seconds.

"I should sleep," Newt blurts out, and he knows his face is burning, and if Hermann were capable of it, Newt bets his would be too. "Sun's coming up soon."

"Yes." Hermann turns away, moving towards the writing desk. "I have some notes to make. I shall see you when you awaken."

Newt crosses the room towards the door, his eyes trained to Hermann's back, looking for any sign that he's been affected in the way he affects Newt. But the vampire is still and silent, and Newt wonders if it's all in his own head.

He doesn't sleep for a long while after.


	7. Chapter 7

Newt hears music.

In his normal life, he had listened to music constantly, but Newt hasn't heard a single note in his whole time on the island. In fact, he hadn’t heard anything but the sounds of nature – the wind blowing, the crickets singing in the night. Hermann has no gramophone or records available, invented long after his era, and any quiet singing or humming he does on his off time can't replace the sweet, sonorous sounds of a good brass or stringed instrument. Unfortunately, he hasn't found one in his exploration of the cellars and storage rooms of the castle.

Given all of this, when he hears the low, mournful wail of a violin, cutting through the night air, it rouses him from sleep, surprised and curious.

The tune is slow, the elongated notes drawn out as if the player were fighting to produce them. The melody is melancholy and full of yearning, drawing Newt out of his bed with its terrible beauty. Clad only in his trousers, he reaches for the tailcoat that hangs from the door of his armoire. It's actually Hermann's, the one he gave Newt that first night. He hasn't claimed it back, and whenever Newt feels homesick, even though Hermann is about as foreign to home as the other side of the planet, he takes the coat down and wraps it around himself. The scent of him hasn't faded a bit, even though Hermann hasn't worn it in months.

His bedroom door creaks as he steps barefoot onto the carpet of the hallway. The passage is normally dark, but across the hall, Hermann's bedroom door stands cracked open, a beam of flickering light spilling out through the opening. The sound of bowed strings grows louder now, and Newt pads across the rug as quietly as he can, afraid that if he makes noise, the music will end.

Through the gap in the door, Hermann stands silhouetted in the shadow of a crackling fireplace. Sleeves rolled up, head bowed, chin resting against the body of the violin, he draws a well-worn bow across the strings. His eyes are closed, lips pursed in concentration as his body sways gently with each motion of the bow. His fingers move with an expert's deftness across the neck of the instrument, pressing the strings down to let the bow produce a clear, crisp note each time.

Newt leans against the doorjamb, the sharp notes cutting through his chest like a knife. He finds it hard to breathe, as if the strings of the violin itself were constricting his throat. He knows the thrall cannot do this; it's the whole of this moment: the beautiful music, the beautiful man, the ache in Newt's heart for something he wants but can't seem to grasp. Hermann stands mere feet away, but the chasm between them seems wide and impenetrable, as the vampire's anguish leaks across the bowstrings and diffuses in fading soundwaves through the air.

After one final, heavy note, Hermann lowers the violin and turns to face the fire. He places the instrument on top of the wide mantle, and then rests his arm against the edge of the stone, and his forehead against that. Newt spots a glint of moisture on Hermann’s cheek, and watches as he wipes a tear away with the back of his sleeve.

"Will you stand out there all evening?" Hermann asks, voice rough. "I heard you rise from bed."

"I didn't want you to stop," Newt says, nudging the door open and stepping into Hermann's room. He has never set foot in here before, and he finds that it looks very much like his own. He sees the same furniture and decor, with some extra wear from decades of use: splashes of tea on the desk, the walls of the fireplace blackened with ash, and the stubs of wax candles collecting in a metal bucket by the door, waiting for Hermann to melt them down for new ones.

"I did not mean to wake you," Hermann says, gazing into the fire. "I presumed you would remain asleep for another hour or so." 

"What were you playing?" Newt asks, walking over to stand beside him. Hermann turns his gaze then, but he's looking through Newt, not at him, lost in the depths of his own thoughts, a storm raging behind the coal black depths of his pupils.

"The piece is called 'Three Sisters,'" Hermann replies. "It is a work in four movements: the first three to represent each of the sisters' varied personalities. Karla's act is warm and full of lush notes, Maria's is a much more technically complex composition, and Julia's is light and airy."

"Your sisters," Newt realizes, the ache in his chest growing heavier. "You wrote this?"

Hermann nods, turning his gaze back to the fire. "The fourth movement is my own," he says. "An elegy. It signifies he despair of knowing... knowing I shall never see them again. I shall never see _any_ of them again." He shudders and presses a hand over his eyes. His frame trembles with a long felt pain that threatens to spill out if given the wrong nudge.

"Hermann," Newt says, resting a hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry. Fuck, I'm so sorry."

Newt wants to pull him close, hug him, give him the same comfort Hermann showed him that first night, that same reassurance – but how could he? Newt can't turn back time, can't send him back two centuries, put him back where he belongs. Newt has a chance to see his loved ones again, but Hermann is alone. He has no one.

_No, you have me_ , Newt thinks. _I promise. You have me._

They stand quietly until the moment passes and Hermann has composed himself.

"I am sorry, Newt," Hermann says, standing up straight. "I hadn't meant to involve you in my troubles."

"No, I want to help you," Newt says. "You're my friend, you dingus. I don't like seeing you hurting. I know I rely on you for a hell of a lot, but you can count on me for some things too, y'know?"

Hermann smiles, warmth in his features for the first time this evening, and Newt can't help but smile back.

"I am truly lucky to have met you," Hermann murmurs. "I nearly went mad before you arrived. You have reminded me what it is to be human again."

Newt feels fingers gently encircle his wrist, and time seems to stand still as Hermann lifts Newt's hand, brings it close to his mouth, and brushes his lips chastely against the knuckles. 

"Thank you, Newt," Hermann says.

For a moment, Newt swears he's going to do more, going to draw Newt in and finally end this damnable distance between them, but then he lets go of Newt's wrist and takes the violin off the mantle.

"Y-Yeah," Newt stammers, swallowing and stepping back. The moment is over, the illusion shattered. Newt wants to scream, the frustration of Hermann’s distance so tangible. "I, uh, I'm glad to do it."

"Would you like to hear the whole piece?" Hermann asks, motioning with the instrument. "I cannot introduce you to my family, but perhaps you might get a sense of them from the music."

Newt forces a smile and settles into the armchair. "Yeah. I'd like to meet them."

~

A few days later, Hermann finds him in the library and presents him with a gorgeous looking guitar.

"I keep all the instruments in my quarters," Hermann explains as Newt looks over the object with unmasked delight. "I remember you saying you played, and this has been lying around without any strings for years. I usually restring the violin with deer sinew, but since guitar strings are longer, I needed a little more time to perfect the drying technique I've been using."

"Holy shit, Hermann! This is fucking awesome!" Newt strums down the strings, finding the instrument already perfectly tuned to play. "Dude, I'm gonna play you all the greatest hits: Hendrix, Joni Mitchell, Slash, maybe some Dave Grohl. Oh my god, you're the best!"

Hermann beams, obviously pleased at the flattery. "You are quite welcome. I played a few tunes before giving it to you, but feel free to let me know if you need any changes."

"You play guitar too? How many instruments do you know?"

"Quite a number. In addition to violin and guitar, I'm passable on the piano, as well as some practice with the flute and recorder."

"You know, maybe that's what you should do when we make it back to the real world," Newt says, plucking gently and testing each individual string. The notes are sharp and crisp and pleasing to the ear. "Something with music. You could make and sell your own strings, people love that traditional, handmade shit. I bet you could probably do repairs too, with how handy you are. Maybe open up a shop, or teach kids how to play. My dad's a piano tuner, I bet he's got some connections he could hook you up with. Hell, you're a beast on the violin, maybe a symphony would hire you on."

"Doubtful," Hermann says, folding his arms and leaning against the wall. "From all that you've told me, I suspect that I would find it difficult to adjust to your world. Five minutes' conversation with someone about the most mundane of modernities, and I would be seen as mad for not comprehending them."

"Eh, we'll figure it out," Newt says, waving him off. "That's the good thing about the future. Everyone's a little bit weird. Besides, I'll help you out. I promise, I won't leave your side until you feel comfortable enough to strike out on your own." He can't help but hope that day won't come for years, because once Hermann leaves, will he ever want to come back? It's not as though he's obligated to. Maybe it's better if he doesn't stay. After months of false starts, Newt has begun to think that whatever connection lies between them, Hermann wants it to stay platonic, whether or not Newt feels the same.

Maybe if he leaves, it won't hurt quite as much.

"You have a life to continue, Newt," Hermann responds, watching as Newt begins to strum the opening chords to  _Time of Your Life_  on the guitar. "I cannot keep you from it."

"You're not keeping me from anything, Herms," Newt replies. "Look, stop worrying so much. Once we get off the island, we’ll figure all this out, you’ll see. Now, are you going to continue overthinking the future, or are you gonna listen to some fucking awesome music?"

"I would like to hear you play," Hermann says, sitting beside Newt on the couch.

Newt plays, and Hermann watches him, and though he smiles as he enjoys the music, Newt can see a sadness in his eyes, a worrying uncertainty, and it doesn't fade, no matter how beautifully Newt tries to play for him.

~

On a small pier off the coast of the island, Newt finds Hermann sitting off the edge, casting a line into the water under the pale moonlight. He's got his trousers rolled up to his knees, his sleeves rolled back, and his usual tailcoat draped over one of the poles. It’s a little shocking, considering how buttoned-up and put together he usually is, and Newt finds that he likes seeing this relaxed, more laid-back version of Hermann. It’s the most human he’s seemed in all the months he’s known him.

"You fish too?" Newt asks, kicking his hiking books off. He had gotten tired of the flat Victorian footwear very quickly, and the boots had more than survived the abuse they’d gone through. He strips his socks off, rolls up his pants, and sits down next to Hermann.

"One of my many hobbies," Hermann replies, flicking the line out into deeper waters. "I wanted to try a new dish, and I haven't cooked fish in several decades. Have you ever learned to fish?"

"Dad took me out a couple times when I was a kid. The waiting killed it for me. My mind can't take that much quiet and lack of stimulation. Well, it couldn't, but considering the past couple of months, maybe I could stomach it a little more."

The waves are gentle tonight, the moon above full and hanging heavy in the sky. _Guess I lucked out with a vampire_ , Newt thinks, glancing over at Hermann, biting back a smile. _If this were a werewolf sort of story, I'd be running for my life right now._

The humidity is the worst it's been all summer. Hermann seems quite unaffected, but Newt is sweating through his t-shirt, which he's paired with the trousers, because he needed the relief of the cotton, but the jeans are sliding off his hips any time he tries to wear them.

He draws a hand through his hair, badly in need of a cut. Hermann isn't the handiest with the scissors, even if his skills with a shaving razor are unmatched. So, his hair hangs heavy, and his shirt soaks with sweat, and Newt is _hot_ , and there are ways of fixing that.

"Fuck it," Newt says, standing up. "How deep would you say the water is right here?"

Hermann frowns, glancing at the waves below. "Probably eight, ten feet? No more than that."

"Good enough!" Newt says, yanking the t-shirt up over his head. The trousers drop to the wood planks, revealing his boxers below. Newt sets his glasses down beside Hermann, lets out a loud yelp and launches himself off the pier into the waters below.

The water feels perfect: cool, but not overwhelmingly so. Newt surfaces and laughs as the water rolls through his hair, down his neck, the waves splashing up gently across his chest. He treads water, blinking it the salt out of his eyes and looking up at the blurry figure sitting on the pier above.

"You should come in," Newt says, kicking his legs out to lie on his back, arms outstretched beside his head. "It's really nice!"

"I'm quite fine here," Hermann says, flicking the line, and even though he's blurry, it's totally obvious he's pretending to care about the fishing, because his neck keeps twisting, his head keeps turning, eyes set on Newt's floating, near naked form.

"Oh, come on, dude," Newt calls, splashing a bit of water up at Hermann, soaking one trouser leg. "How long has it been since you've done this? Fifty years? Seventy-five?"

Hermann is quiet, so quiet, for so long, that Newt lifts his head, frowns, and swims back to the pier. He grabs the dock pole nearest to him, treading water, and nudges Hermann's leg with his hand.

"Herms?"

"I cannot, Newt," Hermann says, shaking his head. "I simply am unable to."

"Unable to? Unable to what?"

"I never learned how to swim."

Newt tries to hide the shock that passes across his face, almost certainly to no avail. He hoists himself back up onto the pier, presses his glasses onto his face, and Hermann goes from blurry to bowed, staring out across the water, eyes lost in the vastness of the sea.

"Never?" Newt asks. "Then how did you survive the storm?"

"The storm drove the boat into the rocks, throwing me from the deck." Hermann replies, motioning to the large outcropping several hundred yards off from where they sit. "I ended up on the island before it sank."

"You haven't tried to learn? I didn't think you even needed to breathe anymore."

"I do not require air, no. Breathing is a natural mechanism that I continue to perform, if only because it keeps me grounded in my connection to my humanity. I have tried, oh, half a dozen times to learn the art of swimming, but whenever I go under the waves, I confess, I panic. Apparently whatever chemical composition causes anxious fervors continues to be generated in my body, despite the vampirism. I..." Hermann swallows, which by now, Newt recognizes as a sign he's uncomfortable. "I am afraid to sink; if I did, I would find myself trapped there, at the bottom of the sea. I would not die, Newt. I would exist, unable to reach the surface. If we attempt to leave this place, and the boat sinks, what then?"

Newt hadn't considered this. Hermann seems unbeatable, unperturbed by things most mortals would live in terror of. Yet, he shirks Newt's presence, and he fears the depths of the ocean, the fear of eternal existence at the bottom of the sea.

"You won't sink, Herms," Newt says, resting a hand over his, where it grips the edge of the dock. "I'll teach you, okay? We'll practice every day – er, every night until you're ready. You'll be moving through the water like a fish by the time we're done."

"What if I am still unprepared by next summer?" Hermann asks, still not looking at him. "The weather is cooling. You cannot spend time in the sea past the autumn, you would freeze. We may only have a few months, realistically. If the barrier falls, and I have not fully prepared, I cannot, I _will_ not-"

"Stop it," Newt says, squeezing his hand. "Stop thinking like that. If you're not ready... then we'll wait until you are."

Hermann looks at him then.

"No. You must leave," Hermann says. "Next summer, you must try. I cannot keep you here longer."

"I'm not leaving you," Newt says, and he knows it's true, knows he won't go now, not unless Hermann comes with him.

_I'm done for_ , Newt thinks. _I'm lost for this man._

"No," Hermann says, shaking his head. He yanks his hand from underneath Newt's, and grips his shoulder, hard. "I told you before, Newt. You have a life. You have loved ones who remain alive. I will not delay your future any longer."

"Shut up," Newt says, gritting his teeth. "You think I could live with myself if, if I just _left_ you here? You saved my life, Hermann. I'd be dead by now if you hadn't found me in the woods. I'm not leaving without you."

Hermann lets out a laugh, shakes his head again. "No. You do not comprehend me, Newt. I said I won't allow it. I meant it. This isn't a choice you have."

"What- what are you-" Newt tries to pull away, but Hermann is leaning in, eyes locked to his.

Suddenly, Newt feels that familiar tingle, that ache of compulsion overwhelming his brain.

" _You will leave, next summer,_ " Hermann says, hissed through fangs, nails digging into Newt's shoulder. " _You will leave this island, whether I come with you or not_."

_No!_ Newt is screaming in his head, is struggling against the waves of obedience that wash over his brain, locking the command somewhere deep into his hind brain.

Then, it's over. Hermann lets go, leaving Newt shaking on the dock beside him, hands gripped into fists against his thighs.

"If I have this power over you," Hermann says, "I'll use it for good at least once."

It's the first time he's acknowledged the thrall out loud, the first time he's admitted that he knows what's going on when Newt obeys his commands without question.

" _Fuck_ you," Newt says, scrambling to his feet. "Fuck you so very much, Hermann."

"Newt-"

"No! You don't- you don't just get to tell me to abandon you, asshole! This isn't just about the swimming, is it? It's everything. All the things you're afraid of and you don't want to confront."

Hermann scowls at him. "What in blazes are you talking about?"

Newt holds up a hand, counting off with his fingers. "You're afraid of sinking. You're afraid of the modern world and trying to live in it. And you're afraid of _me_."

"Of you? Are you mad?"

"No," Newt snaps. "I just understand it now. If I leave and you stay on the island, you'll be alone, but you won't have to face the sea, or the future, or what I want from you!"

"You are a fool," Hermann growls. "You understand nothing."

"So then fucking _explain_  yourself!" Newt shouts, on the verge of tears.

Hermann slams his fist into the wood. "An explanation? Fine! I do not belong in your world, Newt! I am a man -- nay, not even a man -- far out of his time. Think for a moment, would you? If we manage to escape this godforsaken rock, make it back to reality, what kind of life could I lead? I am still cursed, still forced to hide in the shadows. My degree is centuries worthless, I have no real prospects, and the whole of modernity to learn. I would only be a burden. You are young, Newt. You have so much promise, and you would throw it away for a man who should've died two centuries ago. I _won't_ allow it."

"So, you're fine with being alone again?" Newt says. "After reconnecting with your humanity, how could you stand it?"

Hermann looks back at him. "I wouldn't. I shall go mad, but I shall go mad if you stay and waste your life away, so better I go mad with you not here to suffer it."

"Hermann, _please..."_

"This island will never let me go, in any case," Hermann says, turning away. "The hold needs a vampire. I am the vampire. Focus on helping yourself."

"Hermann!"

" _Leave me, Newt_!" Hermann roars, nails splintering the boards of the pier as they grow into claws.

The thrall is a powerful wave, sending Newt dashing off the dock, back up the path, all the way to the castle. He crashes through the doorway as the sound of thunder cracks against the silence of the night. Turning back, he sees the formerly cloudless night is now brewing a large storm on the horizon.

The storm moves fast. By the time Newt makes it to his room and slams the door, rain patters on the roof tiles, splashing loudly against the stonework. Newt throws open the curtains and unhooks the latch of the glass, thrusting the panes open. He's hit by a spray of water, and he lets out a bellow that vanishes in the sound of the crashing lightning.

_It isn't fair_ , he thinks, hanging his head, panting as the exertion of the sprint finally catches up to him. _I can't go back without him. I'd never get over abandoning him to this place. I'd never get over_ him. _Never. Fuck, Hermann, why are you such a stubborn asshole? Let me help you. We can figure it all out if we're together._

Lightning flashes, and Newt makes a vow.

If Hermann tries to send him alone, then he'll go, but he won't leave by boat, or raft, or canoe.

No.

He'll walk right into the sea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEEEEEYYYY ALL. It's been a bit of a hell week, so sorry I've been lax on posting. But all of my stuff should be updating regularly again 2 or 3 times per week.


	8. Chapter 8

The storm pounds the island for the next three days, and during that time Newt and Hermann completely ignore each other. Newt holes up in his room, opening the door ever so often to find a platter of food left there. He ignores the first two, but devours the third, too hungry to ignore the gesture out of anger or spite. He flips through the few books on the bookshelf, stares out into the rain, lies on the bed and sleeps or daydreams. He tries to imagine life outside this hellish prison, tries to imagine going back, but when he pictures escaping without Hermann, it's too painful. He pretends he doesn't know the reason why. He sees no point in wishing for that, when Hermann has made it clear what sort of relationship he believes them to have.

Savior and victim. Protector and damsel. Martyr and innocent.

On the third day, the rain stops. Newt doesn't bother finding Hermann, instead taking advantage of the clear skies to venture out into the forest. The lightning has knocked down tree branches, and he picks them off the path, clearing the trail in a slow, concerted effort. He'd rather not trip and fall again, not after last time.

Five hundred yards down the path, he comes across a tree that has fallen straight across it. The trunk is large, burned and jagged where the lightning hit, and the thickness of the thing makes Newt think it must be hundreds and hundreds of years old. The roots are torn out of the ground, but beneath them lays a large circular tablet made of stone, embedded in the dark soil. The tree must have been planted over the top of it and grew to cover it until it was buried out of sight.

Newt squats down and brushes off the stone. Patterned carvings ring the edge, reminding Newt of blocky letters, though in a language he can't read. He uses his hands to clear off the dirt, and finds that he can move the tablet, sliding it aside. Beneath the tablet is a dark hole with steps leading down into it, fading a black unknown.

His hind brain is screaming at him to run, but Newt has never been one for ignoring risks that could lead to discoveries. _Someone wanted to hide something_ , he thinks as he turns and races back to the castle. He grabs a torch from the wall of the corridor. If he hears a voice calling for him from the library, he ignores it, heading back down the path, back to the top of the steps.

Again, the self-preservation side of his brain tells him that this is a horrible idea, that he has no idea what is down there, that he's living on an island with a fucking _vampire_ , for god's sake! If nobody bothered to bury the blood-sucking creature of the night, then what's so terrifying that it had to be sealed away like this?

_Fortune favors the brave_ , he thinks, taking a deep breath. He puts his foot on the first step, then another, then another.

Nothing happens. No angry growls of hell-beasts, no evil void sucking him down into the earth. He slowly makes his way downwards, the torchlight barely cutting through the darkness. The steps continue down, down, down, until the moonlight has vanished from view and only the firelight remains.

Newt reaches the bottom. A long hallway stretches out before him, and since it’s the only path to take, he begins to trudge down it. He pauses when the firelight hits the first sign of color on the stone walls. Ancient paintings adorn them, looking as fresh as the day they were put down. People dressed in colorful clothes, dancing around flaming fire pits, walking through tall grasses, running across wide plains, climbing tall mountains. Unknown symbols carve a trail across the stone, in the same strange cuneiform as what had decorated the tablet. The people dance and walk and run and climb, colors all a rainbow, until the paint suddenly shifts to pure black and white as massive shadowy shapes emerge from the ground, humanoid beings with fangs and limbs all akimbo. The shadow creatures chase the people, who flee in terror until inevitably caught up in their limbs and torn to shreds. The walls run crimson, looking so much like blood that Newt swears he can smell the iron.

Now he can see a faint light towards the end of the passage. He picks up his pace, and the pictures fly past, of shadows terrorizing towns and villages, murdering and desecrating everything in their path. The colors change again, a bright splash of white light, and eight figures in full color stand in the center, hands raised and all clasped above them, holding something together in their hands. Newt can't make it out, but he's more interested in what lies down the path, which grows brighter and brighter lit in a pale white light.

Newt steps out of the hallway, into a large antechamber, a dozen feet tall. Another intricately carved slab covers the ceiling, showing scenes of ancient rituals, priests and pagans making offerings, shadow creatures screaming as they are sucked into otherworldly voids. In the center of the slab is a painting of an island, craggy and tall on the horizon, with a castle rising from the center, and a forest surrounding it. Below the slab, rising up from the floor on a dais, sits a stone podium. A carved stone bowl rests atop it, and in the center of the bowl, beating and thumping as if it were still inside a body, is a great black heart easily twice the size of a human’s, speared through with a silvery stake.

_What the shit am I looking at?_ Newt thinks, approaching the podium. The air around the podium thrums with an electric energy, and Newt swears he can hear whispers, sounds of chanting, far off screams. His flight response claws out of his head, demanding he turn back, but it feels manufactured, like someone is trying to keep him away. He continues his approach, gritting his teeth and ignoring the will that pushes against his own.

The whispers and chanting get louder as he gets closer. _Away go away leave it be danger foolish end it all go away not for you to disturb._ A muddled mess of words in his head. Newt places the torch down, no longer needing it, as the room fills with a bright light that seems to come from everywhere and nowhere. He climbs the dais, staring at the heart, beating black blood that neither leaves nor enters the chambers, that does not escape leaking from the wound of the stake. A scientific impossibility, a delusion of the mind. He can't trust his eyes, but there it is, and something tells him he needs to grasp that stake, tear it out.

When he grips the end, the world around him bursts into sound and wind, a shrieking, angry hurricane of noise. Still, he holds on, gripping the podium and trying to stay on his feet. The whispers crowd his brain, pounding against it like nails being hammered.

_leave it be leave it be leave it be_

"What is it?" Newt gasps, the breath sucked from his lungs by the force of the whipping gales in the chamber. A scene invades his mind: a shrieking shadow monster, held in place by eight figures, who chant spells of binding. One of them approaches with the stake, raises it high, and plunges it into the creature's chest.

_The shadow monsters_ , Newt thinks. _They're vampires. And the figures, they're the witches who made the barrier. This is how!_

More whispers in his mind.

_keep them contained you must keep them contained_

"No," Newt says, tugging harder at the stake. "No, you- you don't get it. Hermann wasn't supposed to be here. He killed the last vampire, he shouldn't be trapped here!"

_greedy so greedy mortals wishing to be not mortals_

"He didn't want that!" Newt shouts, his voice barely audible as the winds spin faster, the last remnants of the coven trying to tear the stake from his grip. "He just wanted to learn! He shouldn't be here!"

_he is cursed he is cursed cannot let him go he will bring back the terror_

"He won't, I promise he won't!" Newt yells. He yanks the stake with a desperate pull. The heart sticks fast to the bowl by some sort of spell, but the stake shifts, just slightly. "Let him go, please!"

_you would risk the world for a monster why why why why why why why WHY_

"Because... _because I don't feel alone anymore!_ " Newt screams, putting every bit of strength he has into a last pull.

The stake slides out with a loud tear, and a torrent of black liquid shoots straight into the air, smashing into the stone slab above.

Newt hears the crack of the stone at the same moment he hears someone yelling his name. He looks up and sees the shattered stone crashing downwards towards him.

Too slow, he's far too slow, and he knows his death is raining down towards him.

Something smashes into his side, and Newt cries out as he slams to the floor. His head hits something hard, the roar of a collapsing structure fading to nothing as he loses consciousness.

~

Newt coughs dust, breathes it in as he floats back to the world. His head is screaming, pain flares in his lower body, and there is something warm and heavy pressed against him. He tries to shift but cannot move.

"Newt," a voice says. "Newt! Open your eyes, man!"

Hermann's face swims in his vision when he does, far too close. The barest of light peeks through the rocks and boulders and dirt surrounding them, pinning them down. Newt realizes that Hermann is on top of him, pressed to his chest, and above him is the smashed remains of the stone slab. It must be thousands of pounds, and a large broken piece rests against Hermann's back.

"Why're you here," Newt asks, coughing again, trying to shift once more. No good. His arms are pinned by Hermann's weight, his whole body stuck between a vampire and the crumbling dais underneath him.

"I came to find you, you daft, bloody imbecile!" Hermann says, grunting as he presses back, trying to shift the stone off of him. "What were you doing here?"

"Destroying the barrier, I think," Newt winces as Hermann moves, and a jolt of pain stabs through Newt's thigh. He shifts his left hand with some difficulty over to his thigh and feels a damp patch where a piece of stone has buried itself in the back of his leg. "Fuck!"

"I can't move," Hermann grunts as he pushes back against the stone with what looks like all the strength he has. "Blast it, it's too heavy!"

"I've seen you pick up the goddamn bathtub one handed," Newt says. "You can't move a little bit of rock, dude?"

"I am not at my full strength," Hermann says, grunting again, flexing his muscles. Newt sees his body growing, his arms lengthening, but soon they retract, and he's human again.

"What the hell? Why can't you change?" Newt asks.

Hermann’s gaze lists to the side. "I... I have not been feeding the last several days. My powers are diminished."

Newt frowns. "You weren't eating? You dumbass, why the hell not?"

Hermann scowls. "For your information, I haven't been in the mood!"

"You- you were _depressed_? Are you kidding me? Two hundred years isolated on this shithole island, and one fight with me sends you into a depression?"

"You think rather highly of yourself, to assume our spat was the cause of my low humors."

"And what else has so thoroughly pissed you off in the last seventy-two hours? Hmmm? Tell me."

Hermann shoots a venomous glare in Newt’s direction but says nothing.

"Thought so," Newt says. Even trapped under thousands of pounds of rock, he takes a perverse joy in Hermann’s admitting (in looks, if not words) that Newt can affect him so thoroughly.

Hermann continues to not reply, turning his attention back to shoving the stone off of him. Newt lies back against the rock, trying to breathe as deep as he can. With Hermann's weight and the pressure of the slab above on his body, he can only push his chest out so far, and the lack of air threatens his higher brain functions.

"I cannot get it off," Hermann says, panting and struggling above Newt. "We are _trapped_. Newt, Newt, stay awake!"

"Gotta figure something out, dude," Newt says, taking shallower breaths, shaking his head side to side. "Unless you'd like to watch me suffocate and decompose."

"You, you would not decompose. You would just-" Hermann stops talking, and Newt can feel him shuddering at the thought of staring at Newt's dead body, perfectly preserved, for the rest of eternity.

_There's got to be a way_ , Newt thinks. _If he was just stronger-_

"Hermann," Newt says, the thought coming to him. It's a thought he could only have - and find perfectly reasonable - while half lucid. "Hermann, you need to drink my blood."

" _What?_ Are you utterly mad?"

"It's… the only way," Newt mumbles, closing his eyes. "If you feed, you'll get stronger. You can move the stone, save us."

"I told you, I shan't-"

"Dude, circumstances change." Newt feels the wound in his leg throb with a deeper pain. No doubt he’s lost blood, so having Hermann take even more is perhaps not the brightest idea, but what other choice do they have?

"Newt, I haven't a clue what will happen if I do," Hermann says. "What if... what if I begin and cannot stop?"

"Herms. Either I die from suffocation, die from blood loss, or you get us out of here. Our options are limited. Please, just... please." Newt drops his head back, exposing his neck, offering himself freely, a last possible resort.

Newt hears Hermann's panting grow heavier, feels him press his face to Newt's shoulder, breathing in his scent. Newt can sense his excitement: he feels Hermann's fingers gripping into his thighs as his tongue darts out to taste Newt's skin. Newt moans softly, turns his head farther to the side. His jugular juts out, he can feel it thudding through his skin, a tempting offer for a creature nourished on lifeblood.

"You must call me," Hermann mutters against his ear. "If I take too much, call out to me, and I shall stop. Promise you will, Newt. Promise!"

"Mmkay," Newt says. "Shit, I promise. Now do it."

 Newt feels Hermann shift down, tongue licking and lapping, and he tenses up. All his animal instincts scream at him to flee, even though he physically can't. Hermann doesn't go for the jugular, thank god. Instead, Newt feels the prick of fangs lower on his neck, above the subclavian artery. He feels a sharp, quick pain, and Newt cries out, squirms as Hermann's fangs sink into him.

The pain lasts but a fleeting moment, and then something happens. Newt doesn't know what - maybe a chemical cocktail released into his bloodstream - but suddenly everything feels _wonderful_ , every fiber of his nerve endings alight with blissful pleasure, and he sinks into it, moaning devilishly as the pleasure engulfs him completely. The pain in his leg vanishes, and his mind tingles and tickles with a numb euphoria. He hears Hermann growl, can feel the blood draining out of his body, but he doesn't mind it, because everything is painless. Hermann is warm and firm against him, grounding, soothing, protecting, possessing him... and it feels so _good_.

Newt aches, aches for him only, and his body naturally reacts. For only a fleeting moment, he worries about how he’ll explain it later, but then Newt feels something firm and thick against his own leg, and -- oh, oh is that...? _Yes._

Hermann shifts, and growls louder. Newt's eyes flutter open, and he watches as Hermann's body grows and bulks and lengthens, watches his hair split out from his scalp, his eyes giving off their umber glow, his nails extending into sharp claws that break through Newt's skin. Yet, none of it hurts, all of it feels so, so _good_ , and Newt never wants it to stop feeling this good.

He hears the crack and shatter of the slab as it slides to the floor, and he can suddenly breathe again, but Hermann's arms are wrapped around him, pinning his own to his sides, and still Hermann drinks, and still it feels _amazing_.

Newt moans and drops his head back, the world swirling and hazy in his vision.

_Blood loss_. The thought flits through his mind like a darting hummingbird. _Passing out. He needs to stop, Newt. Tell him._

_I don't want to._ He responds petulantly from his most primal place. _It's so nice. Can it stay this nice? Let him have it all, just don't stop this feeling, please don't, I need it._

_Can't let him kill you, he'll never forgive himself_ , the other half replies. _You want to save him, don't you?_

_But I need this, so good, he can have me, whatever he wants of me, I'll give it_.

_Until you're dead. What will he feel then? Stop him, Newt. Stop him!_

"Herms," Newt mumbles, blackness touching the edges of his vision. "Need t' stop... 's too much..."

Hermann merely growls and continues to drink.

Newt tries to squirm, but he's so tired now, it's time to sleep, no more pain, no more anything.

"Hermann, please... don't wanna die..."

Hermann makes another noise. It might be more human, but before Newt can decide, his world fades to black.


	9. Chapter 9

So cold. Everything is so cold.

Newt shivers, twists, feels something being pulled tight around him. He's curled into something warm. He hears a crackling noise to his right side, and soft breathing at his left.

Fingers trail against his cheek, and Newt moans, leaning into them. He’s still so cold; why can't he get warm?

"...back to me," a muted voice says. “So sorry... took too much..."

 

 

 

 

Newt can't open his eyes, they're too heavy. Everything feels heavy, and slow, like swimming through sand. He can't make words, can't form thoughts. The world comes to him through a filter, from the depths of the black ocean that Hermann feared he would suffocate under.

Everything muted, static crackling, muffled breaths, cold shattering his bones, pain, pain shooting through his leg, an icicle buried in his his thigh.

"...die, don't die, don't-"

So cold.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

But then....

Warmth.

Warmth blooms at his forehead. Heat, soft lips, murmured prayers.

" _l’hahalimo,_ _u-l’rap’oto, l’hahaziko, u-l’hay-oto_ -"

 

 

 

 

 

 

Newt breathes in.

 

 

 

 

 

The static fades.

 

~

 

The next time he wakes, he's warmer. The sounds around him have sharpened, his sensations less fuzzy. His limbs still ache, but he can move them, and he slides a hand up the firm wall of heat he lies against, curling it around soft skin... a neck, someone's neck. Someone holds him fast and firm.

"Herms..." Newt blinks and forces his eyelids open, still so heavy. His vision swims blurry, his focal field dominated by a pale peach triangle surrounded by a white v. The triangle shifts, and then black lines slide past his eyes, pressing over his ears. His glasses. The vision sharpens; he realizes he's staring at skin, Hermann's chest, his shirt unbuttoned at the second button, the barest hint of brown hairs scattered fine over the skin, which is rising and falling at a steady pace.

"Newt."

Newt realizes he’s being addressed and looks up.

Hermann stares back, his face alight with relief. He's got one arm around Newt's back, supporting his tired body. The other presses to Newt's jaw, thumb stroking a gentle line down the ridge. He's smiling, two wet lines shining on his cheeks in the firelight.

"Why're you crying?" Newt mumbles. He bears down against Hermann's thumb, sighing softly. It's so nice to be touched, to be petting and preened over like this, but why? How did he earn this affection?

The chamber comes back to him in a rush. The witches' curse, the slab of stone raining down on them, their terrible brush with death. He lets his hand slide back down to his own neck, sliding his fingers across his collarbone, until he finds them: two, tiny dots, barely more than pin pricks, where Hermann bit him and drank the blood he’d offered willingly. He supposes that saved them from dying in that cold, lonely tomb. Score one for Newt, in making the right Hail Mary call.

"I'm so _sorry_ ," Hermann whispers through a haggard breath. "I took too much. I heard you calling my name, but by the time I stopped, you were unresponsive. Your heartbeat flagged for hours, and you would not awaken. I thought- oh _Newt_ , I thought I'd killed you." He bows his head forward, pressing his face to Newt's scalp, choking out a pained sob.

"Didn't though," Newt says, dropping his hand back to his lap. "Still alive. You did it, Herms... I would've died in there without you. Thank you."

"You cannot be so foolhardy! This island holds so many dangers, Newt." Hermann's hand slides from his jaw, down, down to cup Newt's hand, squeezing it gently. "Terrible enough to have me as the danger you live with."

"Tell me how it felt." Newt nudges Hermann's face out of his hair and tries to sit up more, though it's a struggle. The dizziness comes on strong almost instantly, but he breathes and tries to push past it.

"How what felt?"

"Drinking my blood. Tasting me."

"It- it is unimportant,” Hermann stammers. “Your good health is my current concern." His heavy swallow implies otherwise.

Newt huffs, tapping him on the chest. "Hermann. Stop deflecting. Tell me. Wanna know if... if it had the same effect on you as it did on me."

Hermann bites his lip with his human teeth, avoiding Newt's gaze.

"There are no words that can convey how utterly satisfying it was," Hermann finally concedes. "If I spend the rest of eternity on this island, I will never be able to describe the experience." He lets out a harsh breath, and Newt can see the very tips of his fangs peeking out of his mouth, as if remembering could bring on the urge once more. He finally meets Newt's eyes. "You tasted... divine. I cannot yet tell if it was the humanness of the blood that was the cause, or simply that it was _yours_."

"Herms." Newt lets out a breath between his lips, nuzzling into Hermann's chest. Hermann makes a pleased sound. "It was so good. When there's enough blood to power my rational brain again, I'll probably think of a thousand reasons why it's such a bad idea, but... I wanna feel it again."

"You almost died!" Hermann yelps.

Newt waves a hand. "Pshh. I got better. I didn't mean now, anyway."

"You're utterly mad," Hermann mutters, but his expression is caught between mortification and intrigue. Clearly, the thought of feeding on Newt again is getting at something primal within him. Oh, how interesting.

"It's only blood, Herms. I can always make more. Besides, if blood loss is the only way I can get you to cuddle like this, then I'm gonna need to almost die more often," Newt says, winking.

Hermann bites his lip to stop from smiling. "I would rather you avoided any future near death experiences, much obliged."

Newt chuckles. He reaches up to drag his fingers across Hermann's exposed chest, the hairs tickling the back of his knuckles. Hermann shudders, and his arm tightens around Newt's shoulders.

"Stop that."

"No. I'm enjoying your reaction. Let the guy who almost died have his fun."

"My _reaction_ , what poppycock,” Hermann mutters, but he doesn’t still Newt’s hand. “Well, you certainly seem to be improving. I'm no longer worried you'll slip back into a coma."

"How long was I out?"

"Three days. Your body temperature dropped drastically, and I did not know whether the fireplace would adequately stimulate the warmth needed to regenerate your blood cells. So I... improvised."

"So... wait. You were sitting here, holding me, for _three days?_ "

Hermann has the decency to look embarrassed, but only for a moment, because Newt's hand finds the back of his neck, and with any remaining strength he has, he pulls Hermann down, so he can plant a grateful, needing kiss against his lips.

Hermann shivers, and a moment later he is kissing back, his other hand cupping Newt's scalp, tongue and teeth hungrily exploring Newt's mouth.

_Finally,_ Newt thinks.

Newt moans like he's never been kissed before, like he's the sexually repressed, brooding Victorian vampire having a sexual awakening. Newt puts as much passion into the kiss as his exhausted body can muster, and he feels something sharp nicking his lower lip. On impulse, he presses towards it, feels the sharpness prick his mouth, and a taste of copper wells over his tongue. Hermann's tongue flicks out, lapping at that lip as he growls deep in his throat. Newt whines and feels himself stir, despite how impossible that should be with his current blood level.

When Hermann pulls back, his eyes are closed, and his fangs are gleaming in the firelight. He lets out a rolling sigh.

" _Divine_ ," Hermann repeats. "Every taste I get of you makes me want more. Simply addicting."

"When I'm better," Newt says, resting his head on Hermann's shoulder, "I'm going to show you how to enjoy another man's company."

"That's a bit cryptic," Herman replies. “We’ve already been enjoying one another’s company for quite some time. Unless you’ve got other things in mind.” His expression is teasing, coy.

Newt smiles. "Fine, you need it spelled out? I wanna feel you inside me, Hermann. Let's fuck."

" _Newton!_ Bloody hell..." Hermann blushes scarlet. Newt laughs to himself; maybe he’s come on too strong for a nineteenth century man. Still, he looks lovely in that shade.

"You're gonna love it,” Newt responds. “Promise. You can fuck me and feed on me at the same time. It'll feel _amazing_ , holy shit, I'm getting all hot and bothered just thinking about it."

"Do be quiet. I cannot fathom your outrageously vulgar way of describing intimacy."

"Or you don't want to admit you're thinking about how freakin' awesome it would be."

Hermann snorts, and says nothing, but he's flicking his tongue around one of his fangs, and they're still quite prominently _there_ , and so Newt decides he's right.

"Hey, you were chanting something before? I only remember some of it... la hamlio, haziko, or something?"

"Hebrew," Hermann replies. "A prayer for the sick."

"You're Jewish?"

"Ye-es? Is that a... problem?"

Now it's Newt's turn to snort. "Jesus, dude, I'm Jewish on my mom's side, of course not. Didn't practice though, what with her... Eh, never mind. How big was the Jewish population in Britain back then?"

"Quite large and growing, when I left. Though, I am originally German by ancestry. My parents emigrated us to England when I was quite young. Things were rather... _repressive_ in the motherland at the time."

"Yeah, that's kind of been a recurring thing, unfortunately." Newt yawns, closing his eyes. "You really thought I was gonna die, if you were pulling out the Hebrew."

"Do individuals not pray regularly in your era?"

"Eh, depends on our religious affiliation. Mine is... non-existent. That's not a problem for _you_ , is it?"

"I've just kissed you and am considering sodomy in the near future. Your religious beliefs are far from my current focus."

Newt laughs. Hermann's other arm comes up around his side, and he pulls Newt flush to his chest. Newt sinks into the warmth, sighing happily. He thinks that for all the near-death experiences of the last few months, they're kind of worth it, just for this moment.

"I must apologize for earlier," Hermann says quietly, breath ghosting against Newt's ear. "I should not have used that, that ability that I have-"

"It's called making me your 'thrall,' I think."

"Yes. I should not have done that knowingly. Your choices are your own."

"Mmmm. A real apology would include removing what you did." Newt pokes him in the chest, brushing the hairs back and forth. He feels Hermann lean forward, and then shudders through the brain-tingling sensation as he speaks.

" _You shall leave this island when you choose to_ ," Hermann whispers in a deep, thrumming voice. " _With or without me, I shan't decide for you._ "

"Oh, _baby_ ," Newt purrs. "Thank you. By the way, for future reference, being your thrall could be kinky as shit."

"I am not quite certain of your implication," Hermann says. "Are you proposing that you would enjoy my ordering you to do things?"

"Mmmm, yep." Newt noses against Hermann's chest, giggling when Hermann jerks and swats the offending body part. "It could be fun, you'd be surprised. We can start small and work our way up... God, Hermann, you smell nice. And you're so _warm_."

"Newt, _ah_ , stop that. You must rest." Hermann shifts, and Newt grips his shoulder as he stands, hoisting Newt aloft as if he's light as a feather.

"You gonna take me to bed, Don Juan? Sorry, modern reference. Wait, is that modern? Eh, tell me later," Newt yawns. Damn, it can't have been more than ten minutes, and he's already sleepy again. Losing blood like this is a pain in the ass.

Hermann rattles on as he walks Newt upstairs. "I shall get you settled. I have things I wish to do, now that I know you are out of the worst danger. But you must rest and recover. If you truly have broken the barrier, then our time frame is both less rigid and potentially much hastened. We may return you to your family and life in a fortnight, if we can finish the construction of our vessel. Though, I am assuming with this latest change to our relationship that you would object to departing this place unless I am to accompany you, and that shall require my becoming competent in swimming. So perhaps a month or so, yes? Newt? Newt... ah."

Newt has already fallen fast asleep against his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SEE I SAID THEY WERE GONNA GET THERE EVENTUALLY!!
> 
> Next chapter should be later this week. Get ready :D


	10. Chapter 10

It takes Newt several more days to recover the strength to sit up fully in bed. Hermann brings him meals and books to read, perfectly content to spend hours as Newt's pillow, simply talking, enjoying his company, and kissing. There's a great deal of kissing. Newt would like a great deal _more_ than that, but Hermann is right: he won’t enjoy himself nearly as much if he doesn't have the energy for it. For now, they stick to kissing, and when Newt proves capable of sitting up by himself, Hermann allows him access to what lies underneath his crisp, buttoned-up shirts and waistcoats. He takes to simply rubbing, stroking and brushing his fingers across Hermann's chest, seeing what sorts of interesting reactions he can cause: will Hermann squirm and moan if Newt drags his fingers across his nipples? (yes) Will his fangs unsheath if Newt's hands travel lower, stroking trails across his stomach? (yes) Will he blossom into shades of pink if Newt dips his thumb beneath Hermann's waistband, teasing the tufts of hair just above an obvious erection? (yes, yes, _yes_ )

_That's my blood causing that_ , Newt thinks when Hermann grabs his wrists and tells him, crimson-cheeked, that he needs to stop. _My blood in his veins, coloring his skin, flowing down into his... oh, shit_. Newt should be ashamed that he’s added this so freely to his internally alphabetized and color-coded sexual fantasy world, and yet he finds it so impossibly, insensibly sexy that part of Hermann's strength comes from something Newt gave of his own body.

Eventually, he finds the strength to walk again, but in the meantime, Hermann carries Newt with him wherever he goes: to the library, the beach, the courtyard. Hermann slaughters chickens and deer twice as regularly, feeding Newt all sorts of wonderful meals that taste more inspired than ever. They continue work on the boat; Hermann shaves down larger planks, while Newt sits and sands them over his lap before applying a waterproof coating. Hermann loves to ask him questions about modernity, so fascinated by how the world has changed and yet so obviously hesitant. How will he acclimate to such a different world? Newt could imagine him stepping off a street corner and being run over within a week - if you're not used to having to think about vehicles, why would you bother looking both ways?

A few days more and Newt can walk again. He pushes himself to work hard on his body, running laps on the beach, panting and sweat-soaked as he works his muscles to discourage any atrophy. During breaks from their work, he drags Hermann behind trees and introduces him to the concept of fellatio, though Hermann claims _I am not entirely clueless, I am aware of how, theoretically, another individual's mouth might feel on- oh, oh god... good lord, Newt!_

Yeah, he's putty in Newt's hand- er, mouth.

Finally, Hermann checks him over one day and declares him most likely fully recovered.

"So," Newt says, "like, hypothetically speaking, you would have no reservations about my asking you to throw me over the couch arm and rock this fully healthy bod?"

Hermann sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose as his cheeks grow rosy. "Not with those words, perhaps..."

"But?" Newt goes up on his tiptoes in front of Hermann, putting on his best 'technically-I’m-emotionally-blackmailing-you-but-I-know-you-want-it-too' expression. "How about, ‘Hermann, I want to become as intimate as is possible between two dudes?’ ‘Hermann, please use your massive cock to pleasure me.’ ‘Hermann, you plus me equals-‘" And at this, he makes a circle with the thumb and forefinger of one hand, and thrusts the forefinger of the other hand in and out several times, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

"Your inability to ever be serious is infuriating."

Newt’s smile softens, and he leans forward on his toes, gripping the edges of Hermann's vest in both hands. He meets Hermann’s gaze earnestly, openly. "Hermann. Please make love to me. Better?"

" _Rather_ ," Hermann replies, kissing him.

First though, there are some things that need to be taken care of.

They drag water up to the bathtub, because Newt hasn't had a proper bath in several days, and he doesn't give a damn that guys were fucking each other's brains out before modern hygiene, he is so _not_ about that life.

He's not worried about Hermann, because in addition to not aging, he also never seems to be anything other than spotless. So, while the water heats up, he sends Hermann out to hunt.

"Have a big appetizer," Newt explains, nudging him towards the door. "I'll be the main course."

"I still am not entirely comfortable with your desire that I feed on you during our encounter." Hermann responds, his brow knitted in concern.

"Herms, listen. You were starving last time. It isn't any wonder you latched on and almost drank me to death. If you eat something first, I'll bet all the blood in my body that you'll be more sensible this time. Okay? Please?"

"We shall see."

Hermann finally does go out, and Newt settles into the bath, getting as squeaky clean as possible. He catches sight of himself in the mirror, drags his hand over the week-old beard, and mumbles, “Fuck it. Might as well go all in.”

The shaving knife is unsteady in his hand. He scrapes slowly, too gently at first, leaning over the tub and washing the blade off in the water bowl. He gains confidence as he goes, scraping more and more hair off. He’s not nearly able to get as close to the skin as Hermann can, but he hasn't been doing this since boyhood.

A knock against the door makes Newt flinch, and the last draw of the knife bites into his jaw, sending a sliver of blood trailing down his chin.

"Shit!" Newt curses.

Hermann opens the door, looking far too neat and put together for someone who has just engorged himself on a deer's arterial blood.

"Newt? Are you alright? What-" Hermann stops speaking as Newt turns to look back at him, water swishing around his waist. The blood has trickled down his neck, slipping wetly across his collarbone, and rolling over his bare chest. The room goes dead silent, save for the blood _drip, drip dripp_ -ing into the bath water. Hermann's pupils constrict to pinpoints, and Newt grips the edges of the tub as Hermann covers the distance between them in three strides. He bends down, leans in, and laps his tongue smoothly across the cut.

"Oh, _Jesus_ ," Newt gasps. The cut had stung, but now it tingles, and as Hermann's tongue laves a trail down his throat, Newt finds that tingles too. The scientific part of his brain tries to parse out what Hermann’s actually doing to him: pheromones, or a chemical cocktail straight to the bloodstream? He figures that maybe it's _both_ , because his cock began to harden as soon as Hermann's tongue touched his skin.

Hermann follows the blood down with his tongue, making a pleased, crooning noise, until he's lapped it all up. Without looking, he snags the towel from where it lies on the towel rack and drapes it over his arm. He effortlessly picks Newt up, gripping him at the hips and lifting him out of the bath. His arms hold Newt flush against him, not seeming to care that Newt is soaking his clothes through. He draws the towel across Newt's shoulders with one hand, the other wrapped firmly around his waist, and carries him over to the bed.

As Hermann lays him down, Newt grows acutely aware of the contrast between his full nudity and Hermann’s immaculate – if somewhat soggy – dress. Luckily, Hermann gives him little time to consider that as he crawls atop him and continues licking, kissing down Newt's chest and rolling one of Newt's nipples between his teeth and tongue. Newt gasps and grips Hermann’s hair with both hands, hips jerking upwards. His stomach flutters as he feels Hermann's cock just as hard as his own against his stomach; from that alone, he knows that he’s not just a predator tasting its prey. Hermann wants him just as badly, just as fully, and from the way he reacted to the cut, has fewer reservations about feeding than before.

Hermann looks down at him after a thorough, inspecting tongue bath. By the time he finishes, Newt is rock hard and leaking pre-come into the forest of hair below.

"How would you like it?" Hermann asks.

"You seem to be doing pretty good taking the lead. Shocker," Newt replies, reaching out and pressing his thumb against the emerging fang on the right side of Hermann's mouth.

"You taste good. I simply followed my instinct. I require a bit more direction if you want anything further."

"Okay, here -- hold on," Newt says, sliding out from under him. He scrambles up the bed to reach the gilded nightstand beside it, and he opens the top drawer, pulling out a small, glass bottle with a cork stopper

"Where did you find that?" Hermann asks as he follows him, crawling on his hands and knees as he undoes the buttons on his vest.

"It was here the whole time. Whoever first occupied this castle had a perverted streak. Wait, no more," he says when Hermann undoes the second button of the vest. "Yeah, the shirt buttons now, but just the top three. And tug your shirt out of your pants a bit. Yeah. That's, that's nice. I like seeing you a little disheveled. I want you to fuck me with the rest of it on.” Newt continues, his voice growing huskier, deeper with want. “Just -- you can pull your cock out, maybe tug your pants down a little..."

Hermann undoes the buttons of his trousers, watching Newt intently. Newt knows he's watching for reactions, watching how Newt's breath hitches as Hermann's impressive cock escapes its confines, hanging free from the fabric. Oh, he knows exactly where he wants that to go. Newt shivers and pulls the stopper on the bottle of oil, lying back, elbows on the bed.

"I want you to take me like this," he says, holding the bottle up towards Hermann. "I want... just, like, _ravish_ me, dude."

"You're an odd man," Hermann chuckles, carefully pouring oil on his hand. Once finished, he places the little bottle on top of the nightstand within easy reach, and kneels between Newt's legs, which he has spread apart, knees bent. "Tell me everything you like, Newt. I want to know."

"O-okay," Newt groans at the first press of Hermann's finger against him. "Just, slow, one knuckle at a time... yeah. I, um, I like you being dressed an' me being naked. Like that a lot."

"Why?"

"Cause, it's like, it's like I'm offering my whole self to you, and you're only giving what's needed to make yourself feel good. Feels like… like I belong to you."

"You like the submission." Hermann’s next breath is sharp, the realization written in the surprise on his face.

"Yes, _fuck_ ," Newt says as Hermann's second knuckle slips into him. "Can't help it, I just like that kind of shit. Even before this. It feels good to put – put someone else in control, not having to think or make decisions, 'cause someone else can do it for me. Someone using me for their pleasure. Knowing my submission brings them pleasure, but also knowing they’re – ahh -- gonna take care of me too." Newt blushes, squirming as Hermann coaxes his finger further in. "Fuck, I'm a perverted son-of-a-bitch, okay?"

Hermann kisses him wetly and Newt whimpers, melting against his mouth. His cock is throbbing, and this is just the first finger! He's a verbal sort of guy, so describing all of this stuff only adds to the arousal.

"I enjoy your oddities," Hermann says when they part. "If this is what brings you pleasure, then I shall endeavor to match your expectations."

"I don't have expectations- _ah!_ " Second finger. Perfect timing. "You're new at all this. I know I'm asking a lot... if you still aren't comfortable with anything, you don't have to do it. I wanna know what makes you feel good too."

"What makes me feel good?" Hermann lowers his head, tongue dragging across Newt's collarbone. Newt arches up, clenching the sheets and gasping. "Why, seeing you like this, of course, and knowing that I am the one causing it."

"Hermann, _fuck_..." Newt whines, dropping his head back against the bed. "You can do whatever else you want to me, just, please fuck me, oh my god, I need it, I need _you_ so bad, Hermann-"

Hermann's mouth crashes into his as his fingers slide easily out of him. Newt claws into his back, missing the fullness of his fingers, needing it replaced now now _now_ , needing that fullness so badly he feels as if he’s going to _die_  if he doesn't get it...

"Shall, shall I just press onward?" Hermann gasps, stroking a hand through Newt's hair. "Do I just...?"

"Put some oil on yourself first, and take it a little slow," Newt says, snatching the bottle up. "But not too much oil. I like a little friction."

Hermann takes what Newt pours into his palm and slicks himself up. Then he looms over Newt, just like that first night, when Newt first realized his attraction to him, and he knows that this night was an inevitability, even if Hermann had continued to deny it.

Well, he's certainly not denying Newt now.

Newt pushes his face against Hermann's neck and moans low in his chest as Hermann presses into him. The burn is exquisite, a blooming, stretching pressure. Hermann is massive: not remarkably long but thick as the iron bars of his dungeon cell doors. Hermann opens him up, bit by bit, thrusting just that half an inch deeper, and Newt is digging his feet into Hermann's back, his heels slipping on the sweat-dampened edges of Hermann’s vest. He's scratching his nails into the fabric of the shirt, he's half-sobbing into Hermann's neck.

Hermann hesitates, as if he worries he's truly hurting Newt, but Newt just gasps " _keep going, please_!" and he does, pushing deeper and deeper, Hermann's own pleased groans reverberating against Newt's chest. Until, finally, he's in all the way.

" _Hermann!_ " Newt wails against Hermann's collar. "Fuck, you feel so good, fuck, fuck!"

"Newt, _mein Gott_ , you -- oh, you are so tight, how can I possibly move?"

"You gotta, dude, you gotta, it's too good not to!" At Newt’s desperate urging, Hermann pulls out very slightly, and thrusts. Newt jerks back as every nerve ending lights up with that delicious mix of pressure, fullness and pleasure.

"This, this is glorious," Hermann gasps. "I, I never imagined... oh, Newt, oh!"

"Just like that, baby..."

They spend some time twisting, wriggling, squirming, thrusting. Newt can barely clench his muscles; Hermann has stretched him too far. He hasn't been well and truly fucked in a few years, and Hermann has obviously never had his cock inside of another person, but it doesn't matter if he's rusty or Hermann is inexperienced, because any shift, any movement just feels, so, _so_  good. Bottomed out, his body quivers with sharp flashes of pleasure as Hermann reaches his most sensitive regions. Newt mouths at Hermann's shoulder, whimpering with a wanton lust, and Hermann responds with harder, faster thrusts, growling against Newt's throat.

"Shall I... shall I feed, Newt?" Hermann asks, lapping at Newt’s overstimulated skin. "I would like to, if you still want it."

" _Yes_ ," Newt moans. "Please Hermann, just take a taste, see how it feels, see if you can control it."

Newt cries out as two sharp pricks push into his neck -- not as deep as before, when Hermann was drinking for sustenance rather than pleasure. The stinging pain turns back to that blooming warmth and delightful tingling as his body lights up. Hermann's tongue strokes slow over the wound. Newt copies the motion as he strokes Hermann's hair, but Hermann grabs his wrist, pins it to the bed. Forcefully, possessively -- _fuck_ , Newt is going to come so hard, but he doesn't want this to end yet! It's too soon, they've just barely started...

"Herms," Newt whines. "Hermann, tell me I can't come yet."

"What?" Hermann lifts his head.

"Fuck, hurry, please! I need- the thrall, need you to-"

"You wish to draw this out?"

Newt nods frantically. "Yes! Please!"

Hermann pins his other hand, leaning in and giving a sharp thrust. " _Newt, you may not come until I say you might_."

At this, Hermann snaps his hips back and forth again, and Newt arches up, tears leaking from the edges of his eyes. _There._ Hermann’s found that perfect spot, and Newt should be letting go, should be coming... but he doesn’t. The pressure stays, that high peak so close to tumbling into release, and Newt can't reach it, can't grab it. The thrall yanks him back from going over every time. It's frustrating, it's maddening, it's far too much, he can't take, it... but oh, he can, he must, because Hermann will give it.

"Are you alright?" Hermann asks, mouthing half-starved kisses across Newt's cheek. "Was that command too strong?"

" _Hermann_ ," Newt moans, digging his nails into his palms. "No, it's so good, fuck... Your cock and fangs and the thrall, _all of it_..."

"What else can I do? Tell me what I must do to keep you in this state. God, Newt, every part of you is delectable!"

" _Use me_ ," Newt tells him, clenching around Hermann's cock. "Just, fuck! Just manhandle me and twist me around and pin me and fuck me 'till I scream. Keep biting and tasting me, too. I want you to – ahh, to own me."

"You are amazingly expressive," Hermann pants, "and I... I do not understand why this excites me."

"Pshh, yeah, like I know either," Newt says. He groans when Hermann pulls back, sliding out of him, but then Hermann turns him over, pulling his legs apart and thrusting back in. Newt squirms against the coverlet, rubbing his neglected cock against the sheets. It keeps him peaking, on a razor’s edge, and he bites down on the fabric to keep from screaming. Hermann catches up his wrists, pins them to Newt's back, and drapes himself over Newt's body. Newt shouts and grinds forward, whimpering pitifully.

"Any bit of submission and you become incensed, Newt." Hermann mutters in his ear, teasing the shell of it with his tongue. For all the man claims to be uneducated in the matters of intimacy, Newt would bet good money that Hermann got his hands on some good, old fashioned filthy erotica at some point. Though he 's fumbling, he seems to understand the concept of erogenous zones. Then again, maybe it's a vampire thing. Maybe once you get bit, you gain some sort of inherent knowledge about how to pleasure your thralls. There's a reason vampires and erotica are so closely tied together. If they're well and truly real, then someone was writing from _experience_.

"Herms, Hermann, fuck... don't stop, don't ever stop," Newt mewls, digging his toes into the sheets. "I- I can't- I'-" What he can't do is speak, dissolving into nonsensical babbling, language centers shorting out as Hermann's teeth sink into his shoulder. A wave of pleasure coalesces up and out through his nerve endings. He keeps peaking, his body and his mind greedy for the pleasure, and the noises that he makes as Hermann drives into him, over and over, he might as well be inhuman himself, for the way Hermann has reduced him to this mess of a creature of lust that barely resembles a man.

Hermann releases Newt's hands and stills his movements. Newt grips into the sheets, shaking uncontrollably, cheeks wet with frustrated tears, his body aching for release even as his mind begs for more. Hermann's hands stroke down Newt's sides, and Newt lets out a half-sobbing gasp.

"You're gorgeous," Hermann says, and damn him for sounding so calm, for not needing the oxygen that Newt feels starved of. Of course he isn't breathing hard, though he's trembling a bit, and his cock is throbbing inside Newt, every little twitch brushing Newt's overwhelmed nerve endings. "Darling, I fear if I keep you like this any longer your heart will give out."

"I don't, _I don't know_ ," Newt says, pawing at the sheets like an animal in heat. "It's so, I, Hermann, I don't wanna stop...!"

"You instructed that I take control of the situation," Hermann replies, sliding one hand up to knead into the back of Newt's neck. "I shall do so to avoid your giving out entirely. _Newt, you may come when you like_."

Hermann thrusts again, and that's all it takes. Newt throws his head back and yells, full-throated, as he comes, as Hermann grips the mattress and plunges into him, over and over. Too sensitive, too overwhelmed with desire, Newt wails and shudders, body constricted as his seed soaks into the sheets under him. It's a roller-coaster of an orgasm, splashing over him with the cool relief of diving into the sea in the mid-August humidity. Hermann keeps thrusting, peaking those little sensations and blowing them out, and then Hermann is gasping his name, and heat spills into Newt, as white hot as metal on a slide in the summer, yet filling him with an achingly powerful warmth.

Newt thinks he might have passed out for a few seconds there. When he opens his eyes, he's been picked up again, and Hermann is fully nude, carrying him over to the bathtub. The water has cooled to a perfect temperature as Hermann steps into the tub, cradling Newt to his chest and sinking down.

"Holy shit," Newt murmurs, panting. "Holy _shit_ , Hermann. How did you do that to me?"

"I confess, I haven't the faintest clue," Hermann replies, stroking a hand through Newt's hair. "Everything just, it felt like the correct thing to do. As if I understood exactly how to please you."

"Did you like it?"

Hermann lets out a deep-throated growl and nods. "Yes. Frankly, perhaps more than is virtuous to admit. Seeing you so overwhelmed by what I was doing, well, that shall remain in my fantasies for a long while to come."

Newt chuckles, kissing his chest. "Next time, we gotta set a timeframe, 'cause you were right. If you hadn't stopped me, I might never have asked you to. That thrall... it's super fucking powerful. I felt like I was gonna die if you stopped."

"We should discuss your desires more thoroughly before we attempt that again," Hermann insists. "You may enjoy the idea of submitting to my command, but I must know beforehand where your true comfort lies so that I do not exceed your boundaries."

"What a thoughtful vampire," Newt snarks, grinning and closing his eyes. He sinks farther into the water, little waves lapping over his shoulder. "Okay. I'll make us up a list. We can negotiate stuff in between building the boat and getting our asses off this island."

"You intend to try, then? Before the weather turns cold?"

"Yeah. I want to go home, Hermann. And I want you to come with me."

Hermann nods against Newt's hair. "Alright. Teach me to swim, and as soon as I am ready, we will leave."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here, here is the sex all of you were waiting for, I hope it was good
> 
> >:3


	11. Chapter 11

The moon hangs high in the late August sky as as Newt and Hermann tread into the ocean, clad in their trousers and nothing else. Hermann grips Newt's hand tightly, unsteady on his feet as the waves batter his legs, a marked difference from his grace on shore.

"Hey, it's just the edge of the water," Newt says as the waves lap gently about their waists, rising to their upper chests as they take a few steps farther. "No way for you to get sucked under here. We'll practice floating first, okay?"

He has Hermann stand parallel to the shore, and then cups the back of his head, guiding him to lean backwards, farther and farther, until his feet leave the ocean floor. Of course, the first instinct of a beginner swimmer is to curl in on themselves instead of spreading, and Hermann does this, dropping under the waves. Newt grabs his shoulder and yanks him up immediately, and he laughs a bit at how Hermann sputters and coughs up water; it's perfectly unnecessary since he doesn't breathe, but Newt can't imagine water in the lungs is a pleasant sensation.

"When you feel your feet leave the ground," Newt instructs, "keep your whole body straight out in front of you, don't bend any of your limbs. It might feel like you're gonna go under first, but the surface area will create buoyancy and pull you up to float."

"You could've said that the first time," Hermann says, grumbling and wiping water off his face. 

"Yeah, but it was a little funny. Besides, you look cute when you're flustered."

In the moonlight, Newt can see him go rosy-cheeked, muttering something about _vampires are not 'cute'_  under his breath. Newt snickers; he'll let Hermann have his imagined dignity for now, saying nothing.

It takes a few more tries before Hermann manages to get his body flat enough to remain buoyant. Newt cups him under the spine and shoulders to give him a little support, instructing him to spread his arms and legs out wide, give his body as much surface area as he can.

"Good, you're doing good," Newt says. "This is the best way to stay above the surface if the water is calm. For you, even if you're in some sort of massive ocean storm, just hold this position and you'll stay near the surface until it passes. Not like you have to worry about breathing."

"So then, this will prevent me from-"

"From sinking all the way down, yeah," Newt says, smiling as the tense fear that's been laced through Hermann's expression this whole time fades away. "Yeah, dude, see? You've got advantages over humans with your strength and lack of needing oxygen, so you're pretty much set. Once you can hold this on your own for a while, we'll practice some doggy paddling. Maybe even some breaststroke."

"Are these all terms for swimming maneuvers?"

"Yeah."

"Fascinating," Hermann says. He arches his back a bit more, pushing himself to take the weight off of Newt's hands. "How are you aware of all these techniques? You seemed to imply that your expertise in physical activities was rather... limited."

"Hey!" Newt says, taking mock offense to Hermann's implication. "It's not like I sit on my couch all day eating Cheetos and drinking Mountain Dew. I'm not some nerd stereotype -- you understood none of that. Shit. Anyway, lots of people learn how to swim when they're kids. I spent my summers at camp; lots of nature walks and learning about animals and the great outdoors. We swam in lakes and dove off piers. I like the water. Honestly, swimming was the only sport I ever took a liking to. Not that I ever joined the swim team or anything. Maybe it's just the context I was in, when I was doing it. Dad sent me to this nerdy summer camp with other freaks and weirdos who were too smart for their own good. It was the only time I ever felt like I really fit in."

"That is quite a lot to associate with the simple act of splashing about in the water," Hermann says, as Newt guides him to touch his feet back into the sand and stand up. "I do understand, though. I had few people to call friends throughout my life. I invested in my work far too much to engage with my peers, and of course, I had no desire to interact with the opposite sex, outside of intellectual or familial reasons. I mostly kept to myself."

"So, you were alone before this island too," Newt says, looking down between them to find where Hermann's hands are floating in the water. He reaches out and cups one, turning it over. Despite being in the water for quite some time, his fingertips remain smooth and unpruned, in contrast to Newt's own wrinkly palms.

Hermann's other hand lifts to cup Newt's cheek, drawing his chin and his gaze upwards, until their eyes meet.

"I am not alone anymore," Hermann says, a low, deep thrum through his chest that makes Newt weak in the knees. "You have seen to that."

"My pleasure," Newt replies, swallowing and exhaling harshly as Hermann dips forward, down towards him "Really, any time you need some company, just let me-"

The rest of it is swallowed by Hermann's mouth.

~

They decide that they will leave at the end of September, before the water get too cold. Their boat is near completion: a large raft in the center with a makeshift sail using a variety of cloths stitched together by Hermann, and two attached canoes lashed to either side of the raft with accompanying paddles, for extra power when the sea winds will not assist their flight.

They aren't sure of how long it will take to cross the sea or hit any sort of other landmass, as the horizon of each side of the island is flat and shows only the open waters. Now that Newt thinks of it, they haven't seen any ships or boats or planes the whole of the time he's been here. Perhaps there's some sort of continued illusion or magic over the island, even with the barrier removed?

They won't know for sure until they leave, so they begin to pack supplies, stores of food wrapped in oilskin bags, canteens they've discovered in the cellars filled with fresh well water. They pack several sets of dry clothes as well, just in case. They find a compass, and an old map purporting to accurately show the sea, though who knows how well cartography from 1645 will hold up. Extra rope, knives, flint and steel, and other various odds and ends get packed away into the bow and stern of each canoe.

Newt bends thin branches together into a hoop and binds them with hemp cords, tying the middle of the hoop to a thicker rope attached to the mainsail, and hanging it off a hook on the pole. "A life ring," he explains at Hermann's befuddled look. "To throw in case someone goes overboard. Just in case."

"You suspect there will be a need?" Hermann asks, picking up the ring and examining it. "We shall be leaving on a calm evening."

"Just call it a hunch," Newt says, waving him off. Something is telling him that the witches who wanted to keep the original vampire on this island wouldn't just use one measure of ensuring they never left.

Hermann continues to practice swimming. He masters floating quickly, and they add kicking and paddling to that technique before moving onto upright doggy paddling, and then breaststroke. He's a fast learner, of course. Nothing Newt has thrown at him has befuddled him yet, and soon Hermann is paddling slow circles around Newt in the water, splashing him and grinning like a schoolboy as Newt chases after and continues the fight. Newt urges them deeper night by night, longer periods of no footing but one's own self-propelled kicks keeping above the water. Initially, Hermann seemed reluctant, but gains confidence as the weeks go on. Newt relishes the experience of helping Hermann – not just because it makes him happy, but because now their escape truly seems within reach.

In between packing and swimming lessons, they learn how to navigate this new, undiscovered territory of a romantic relationship. After their first episode of lovemaking, Newt finds Hermann very eager to repeat the experience. He supposes that two hundred years of virginity can do that to a guy. Hermann is downright _horny_  for Newt. He finds himself being pressed up against walls, bent over tables and couches, pulled down to his knees in front of the library's fireplace and ravished, at least once or twice a day. He's not really complaining; just like everything else, Hermann is a quick study of what Newt likes, what gets his engine revving. The cheeky bastard has taken to carrying the glass bottle of oil they found in the bedroom in his pocket, as if the urgency to have Newt at any moment means he'd be agonized to have to wait any time at all to retrieve the right tools.

Hermann does feed from him again, but only sometimes, and only at Newt's own request. The dizzying, spine-tingling pleasure that he gets from whatever Hermann's fangs are doing to him is a treat, but treats shouldn't be abused. Besides, sometimes he just wants to see and feel what Hermann can do to him with his normal, human abilities alone. They do utilize the 'thrall' as they have taken to calling it, but only after setting some clear boundaries and ideas about where Newt's limits are. They try agreed upon scenarios, such as Hermann commanding Newt to his knees to suck him off or ordering him to finger himself open while Hermann watches, and when it has ended, they come back together to see what worked and didn't work for both of them. Newt likes the soothing, euphoric, mind-altering effects the thrall has, like a drug that can be given and removed at will, and he likes best of all that he can trust Hermann to be careful and respectful with how he uses it. He hasn't done it accidentally or against Newt's will since that night on the pier.

When not working out two centuries of sexual repression, they speak more of personal matters, opening up about old wounds and vulnerabilities. Newt tells Hermann about his mother, about how her abandonment of him left a deeply-entrenched fear of being abandoned by potential friends or lovers, which made him less likely to seek out either. Hermann explains how his domineering father hated Hermann's obsession with mathematics and had suspected his son's 'proclivities' for men, which led Hermann to repress his passions, both intellectual and emotional. University had allowed him to pursue the former, but never the latter, due to his shy nature and his fear of watchful eyes.

They both have deep hurts, and yet, in each other, they have found ways to heal them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters left!


	12. Chapter 12

The night before their planned departure finds them sitting on the bearskin rug in front of fireplace in the library, sipping brandy and leaning against one another. Newt has a book in his lap, an aged copy of _Dante's Inferno_  copied in freehand, written down before the invention of the printing press. He gently flips the pages, marveling at the detailed drawings of Hell, Purgatory and Heaven. The artwork brings the verse to life in beautifully gruesome interpretations of the passages.

"It's a shame," Newt says. "Most of these books are out of date but there's so much history to them. I bet scholars would love taking a dig into this library. I wish we could take it all with us."

"Perhaps if we leave the island, others can gain access," Hermann says, doffing the rest of the brandy down his throat and licking his lips. He sets the glass aside and leans over Newt’s shoulder, peering at the pages. "You know, I had a copy of this as a schoolboy. Read it quite voraciously, even if I found it utter poppycock. Generally, my people had vastly different ideas about the afterlife. I wondered sometimes, being here, whether it was all true, whether I had really drowned that night on the sea and this was my eternal punishment, for disobeying my father, for not being devout enough to Yahweh, for all of these wicked thoughts and desires for men that I held."

Newt turns his head to the side, just enough to press a chaste kiss to Hermann's jawline. "Nothing wicked about what we're doing, babe. Love is love is love. Fuck, sorry, another reference you don't-"

But he stops, because Hermann has taken a breath, twisted his head to look at Newt. His eyes are wide with cautious hope, and Newt realizes what he's just said. What he's just accidentally implied.

 _But do I?_ Newt thinks, frozen, lips parted with unknown words. _Can I, having only known him a few short months?_

He searches himself, and considers who he's ever felt this close to, who he trusts with his life and his most painful secrets, who has ever cared for him and shown him so much affection and appreciation. Who else he would refuse to leave behind in this layer of timeless hell, even if it meant his own damnation.

Other than his father and uncle, of course, there is no one.

"Newton..." Hermann begins, because they have been sitting there for a while, and Hermann must feel the moment has passed, that he misinterpreted things, that he must move them on from this topic.

Newt closes the book, tosses it aside as if it were nothing – Hermann’s so much more important right now. He cups both sides of Hermann's jaw, tugging him in for a tender kiss, full of yearning and want and gratefulness for all this amazing man has given him.

"I love you," Newt breathes out when they break off the kiss, resting his forehead against Hermann's. Hermann's mouth curls into a dazzling smile, and he moves forward to catch Newt's mouth again, his hands coming up to grip Newt's sides, tugging him closer. "I love you, I love you, I love you," Newt repeats against Hermann's lips each time they break apart, until they no longer break apart, until Hermann pushes him down onto his back, gasping and pulling at Newt's clothes.

"Need you, Newton..." Hermann moans, wrenching the Newt’s vest apart, buttons flying off as his hands scrabble to yank Newt's undershirt upwards. Newt tries to help, tries to save the damn shirt by undoing the top button, but then Hermann seizes his wrists and pins them with one hand above his head, his other hand gripping the front of the material and pulling so hard it tears open.

Newt groans and cants his hips upwards. Hermann's aggression and possessiveness set Newt on fire. The noise he makes seems to rouse Hermann from his feverish state. He pauses, panting and looking Newt up and down.

"Is- is this alright?" Hermann asks. The muscles of his arms are shaking with tension, as if it's physically painful for him to stop, but Newt knows he'll do it if Newt asks him to. He always listens, always wants to ensure Newt is enjoying himself. Hermann may have the strength and the fangs and the thrall, but Newt wields command over it all.

"Keep going," Newt begs, squirming and bucking upwards, moaning when he feels Hermann's hardened length press into his thigh. "Fuck, Hermann, take me right here, right now, I want it, _please_ -"

That's enough to convince Hermann, it seems. He pushes a hand down the front of Newt's pants, and Newt lifts his hips to help the other man drag his trousers and undergarments down, more fabric stretching and buttons snapping, which is fine, they can be fixed later. Newt lies nearly naked under Hermann, lower garments pooled around his ankles, shirt and vest shredded and hanging off his shoulders. He pants and twists beneath Hermann's iron grip as Hermann reaches into the pocket of his waistcoat and pulls out the bottle of oil.

He grips the stopper in his teeth and yanks it out of the bottle (holy shit, that's _hot_ ), tipping it into his palm and letting a last generous pool of it coat his fingers. Then, he sinks one long, searching finger into Newt's body, and Newt keens, arching upwards, calling his name and clenching around it.

Hermann preps him quickly, eager and a little sloppy, but it feels so good. Hermann's fingers plunge deep into him, drawing little sighs and gasps out of him. Newt has never felt this wanted before, by anyone, and it’s incredibly flattering. When Hermann loosens his grip, Newt yanks his hands out and quickly gets Hermann out of his waistcoat, only a little more careful than Hermann had been, mouthing kisses along Hermann's jaw as he flicks open the buttons of his vest, then his shirt. Hermann flexes his shoulders and slips his fingers out of Newt to tug his sleeves off, but as soon as his arm is freed, he thrusts three fingers right back in, catching the cry Newt makes in a kiss as he presses his nude chest against Newt's body.

"H-Hermann," Newt moans, cupping the back of his neck to keep him pulled down close; he needs Hermann to stay right here, skin to skin, warm and gorgeously human. "You're beautiful, I need you, honey, please..."

Hermann makes a desperate noise and slides his fingers back out, gripping the underside of Newt's thighs and drawing his legs apart. "You have me, _mein liebling_ ," he moans as he lines himself up and sinks into Newt. It’s a slow, singular crescendo of a moment every time, but it will never get old: that feeling of just a little too much pressure, but then a satisfying fullness.

Dimly, Newt is aware of the crackling fire, the softness of the rug beneath them, the stillness of the air in the library, but everything falls away when Hermann is around him, above him, inside of him. His hands reach downwards to grip Herman's, to find something to hold onto, a lifeline to ground himself as the pleasure and intensity of his feelings threaten to send him crashing, breaking apart like waves on the rocks. Their bodies rock in tandem, and Hermann murmurs heartfelt musings into his ear, but Newt knows he'll forget them all under the weight of feeling so _connected_  to someone else, so connected that words don't matter, don't matter. Words can’t explain what it's like to lock eyes with another person in the firelight and know you've found the missing piece of your heart.

Newt went looking for an adventure this summer. He could've never imagined finding this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LAST CHAPTER ON HALLOWEEN!!!


	13. Chapter 13

As soon as the last of the rays of sunlight disappear, Hermann emerges from the castle. Newt has already made his way shoreline, tying down supplies and triple-checking rigging and anything that has been waterproofed. He's stowed his regular clothes in a pack, stripped down to an undershirt and cloth breeches, his bare feet digging into the sand as he finishes the last of his preparations. He wants complete freedom of movement in case he needs to make any quick adjustments. The last time he did anything close to this was canoeing at summer camp, and even though he and Hermann have been practicing their paddling strokes, it's best to give them as many advantages as possible.

Hermann jogs down the beach as Newt pushes the vessel into the water, sighing in relief when it bears all the weight of their supplies and floats quite easily.

"Are you sure we are prepared for this?" Hermann asks, following Newt into the water up to their waists.

"As much as we can, I think." Newt replies. The sea shivers in the full moonlight, blessedly calm on this cloudless night. The water’s cold, but if all goes well, they won't have to worry about that. If all goes well, they'll simply paddle their way south and hit the shoreline of some European country before morning.

"Wait." Hermann grips Newt's arm, tugging him close and cupping the back of his hair with sea-soaked fingers, kissing him tenderly. "Thank you," he says when they break apart.

"For what?" Newt asks.

"For giving me hope again," Hermann replies, smiling at him. "Now, let us be off."

They clamber onto the vessel and into the opposing canoes, taking up the oars and beginning to paddle. The makeshift boat slides smoothly across the water as the sail catches the wind, blowing it wide and giving them more speed as it pushes them forwards. Newt glances back at the island disappearing behind them, the way the castle stretches up into the sky, an imposing structure that stays visible even as the beach disappears, then the tops of the forest trees, the central high tower. Finally, even that slips away and they are left on a wide, flat plane of water as far as the eye can see.

"How many kilometers do you propose we must go?" Hermann calls out as the waves pick up, choppier and choppier the farther they paddle. The clear night morphs before their eyes as dark, ominous clouds roll towards them.

"The ferry crossed the channel at the slimmest part," Newt shouts back. "So it should only be about twenty miles across. I can't imagine the island was much farther off the route!"

The moon hangs in the sky to their left, but cloud cover soon blots out its light. They continue to paddle, even as the hairs on the back of Newt's neck start to stand up; this doesn't feel right. The waves climb higher and higher, and they've been paddling for what seems like hours, and when a light rain begins to fall, thunder crackling far off. Newt curses as he sees his fears come to life. He knew this couldn’t be that easy, and he was right.

A sudden gust of wind snaps the sail backwards, and Newt yelps, gripping the oar tight and plunging it into the water to keep them from being flipped over.

"Fuck, get the sail down!" Newt yells, watching Hermann scramble onto the deck of the raft. He tosses his oar to Newt, who lashes them both to the inside of his canoe and then crawls onto the deck to help Hermann secure the sail, the billowing wind rendering it useless. The rain picks up, and they both sink to their knees, gripping the pole and each other's arms across the breadth of it.

"What do we do?" Hermann yells as lightning cracks above them and the vessel lurches upwards over a tall wave.

"I don't know!" Newt cries back, mind racing as he tries to come up with a plan. "We could turn back but I think this is part of the curse! It might just happen again the next time!"

"So, then we simply ride this out?" Hermann bellows, nails digging into Newt's arms as they drop off the edge of the wave and crash against the water below. " _Scheisse_ , we won't survive it, Newton!"

"You have a better plan? Wanna see if you can turn into a bat and fly out of here?"

"I told you, that isn't part of my abilities! Besides, I won't abandon you!"

"Then hold on!" Newt yells as a wall of water rises up before them. It breaks over their vessel, sending them spinning and screaming, barely holding on as they plunge across the bank of another wave, tossed this way and that, completely out of control. Newt fumbles for the life ring, miraculously still attached to the pole, and shoves it at Hermann. "Put this around yourself! It'll keep you attached!"

"What about you?" Hermann yells as Newt struggles to his feet. He listens, slipping the ring over himself as Newt lunges for his canoe.

"I can swim!" Newt calls back, leaping across the short opening between raft and canoe and landing inside the vessel, which has nearly filled with water. He bails out as much as he can with his hands and yanks one of the oars free, plunging it into the water and pushing with all his might, trying to give them some sort of direction.

Lightning flashes across the sky, far too close, nearly blinding them wherever it crashes down. _Land_ , Newt thinks, panting as he tries to twist the boat in that direction. The waves bounce them all about, but he can at least try to give them some sort of guidance when they burst over the top of one. 

They ride this madness, wave after wave, until Newt hears a great cracking sound, and a yell, and he cries _Hermann!_  as the raft comes apart and the canoe he is in is thrown to the side, broken free of its moorings. He watches in horror as Hermann is tossed into the water, and though he struggles mightily, he’s overwhelmed by the ferocity of the waves. Newt doesn't think, he just acts, pushing off and plunging into the freezing waters as Hermann's hand disappears beneath the surface.

He puts everything he has into kicking forward. All their practice has strengthened his legs, and he forces himself down beneath the roaring waters, flailing in the blackness until he feels a hand grip his own. Then, with all he has left, Newt kicks upwards.

He breaks the surface with Hermann limp in his arms, which makes no sense. He can’t have drowned, he doesn’t need to breathe; how is he unconscious? Thankfully, one of the canoes floats only feet away, and he drags them over to it, mustering just enough energy to grip the edge. He holds on and prepares for another wave, but the sea has grown calm again, the clouds have disappeared, and the bright, full moon descends towards the horizon.

"What the hell?" Newt breathes out, twisting about, understandably shocked at how the weather has completely changed in the minute or less he was under water, trying to reach Hermann. The storm leaves no trace, the sky cloudless once more. A few miles in the distance, a wide stretch of land cuts across the horizon.

Somehow, he manages to shove Hermann up into the canoe, and with Hermann's weight inside, he can just barely climb up without capsizing. He pants and lays Hermann out across the bottom, shaking him, no response in his limp body. He stupidly presses two fingers against Hermann's throat, even though he knows there will be no pulse... and yet there is, faint and fluttering.

"Please wake up," Newt gasps, shaking Hermann again, tears welling in his eyes. "Please don't leave me!" The CPR class he took for a job two years ago springs to mind. He tips Hermann's head back, ensures his airway is clear, and begins chest compressions, praying he doesn't crack any ribs. “Wake up, wake up, _WAKE UP!”_

Finally, Hermann jerks and coughs, twisting to the side as he expels water onto the bottom of the boat.

"Oh Jesus," Newt says, bowing forward and resting his forehead against Hermann's shoulder "Fuck, you scared me so badly."

"Newton," Hermann says, gasping for breath. "Newton, I need to breathe."

"Yeah, I know, that's why I-"

"No, you don't understand," Hermann says, looking up at him. " _I need to breathe_."

"What- oh. Oh shit!" Newt says, eyes going wide. "You mean, so... how do you feel?"

"Freezing," Hermann says, between coughing and gasping. "I haven’t felt cold in 200 years. And you... you smell _normal._  I cannot smell your blood, it is just... you." He runs his tongue against the underside of his teeth, beginning to grin. "My fangs. They're gone!"

"So, you think, maybe..."

"We shall see soon enough," Hermann says, motioning. "The sun will rise before we make it to the shore. If I am still cursed... well, then I suppose you won't have to worry about introducing me to your family anymore."

"Don't say that!" Newt says, glaring at him. "That's not fucking funny!"

"I am sorry, darling," Hermann says, and the earnest look he gives him is enough to kill any remaining annoyance. "I did not mean to frighten you." He cups a hand to Newt's cheek and leans up to kiss him.

"Hermann..." Newt groans and flops ontop of him, hugging him tightly, breathing in.

When the sun rises and the first beams in near two centuries hit Hermann's bare skin, and do not burn him, he cries, stretching up to feel the sun, and the unbridled joy on his face is the most beautiful thing Newt has ever seen.

~

_1 week later_

"Not yet, Hermann. Wait for the light to change."

Hermann scowls, tugging his jacket a bit tighter about himself, and glares at the stop light. "Well, how long is it going to take?"

"The cars need some time to pass first," Newt explains, motioning to the traffic that's zipping in front of them, that would've smushed Hermann flat if he'd tried to cross it. "Don't be so overeager, we're not in a rush."

After their escape, a private schooner captained by an elderly woman out for a sea cruise picked them up. Newt made up some bullshit story about being young lovers on the run from disapproving families and she was either dull or nice enough to pretend it made sense. Hermann was his charming, gentlemanly self as ever, and she was so delighted that she was more than happy to let Newt send a few emails with pictures of his very alive self to some "friends" (aka his dad and uncle), saying he would call them when they made it to port.

She was touched enough by their plight to contact an old smuggler friend of hers who knew how to get a fake passport, and pretty soon they'd imagined up an identity for Hermann and gotten reasonable enough looking papers that would get him through security at the port. Then it was a matter of finding a phone, a tear-stained call between Newt and his relatives, and enough wired money to last them for a few weeks while his family made plans to fly over. Newt hit the Parisian American Embassy, got his own genuine papers reissued, and they set up in a hotel with the sent money, nothing to do but enjoy the city until the cavalry arrives.

Hermann has been staring at everything with slack-jawed incredulity ever since they landed on shore. He says that nothing in Paris looks as he remembers it, and what's this talk of a great bloody tower in the middle of the city? The barest of amenities in their hotel room, like indoor plumbing, the air-conditioning unit, the television, and the lights, fascinate him for hours. He flicks the lights on and off for ten minutes before Newt asks him to stop; he can’t read the room service menu with the lights flashing. Newt puts on the television to the BBC and Hermann lies on the bed, eyes flicking over the moving images, as delighted as a child at Christmas. Much of what's said on the news goes over his head, but he knows enough about the general concept of politics and what Newt has told him to surmise the broadcast.

The schooner captain let them have some clothes to borrow, but on their first full morning in the city, Newt drags Hermann out to a men's boutique and demands that 21st century fashion be one of the first things he gets used to. They replenish their wardrobes, Hermann taking a particular shine to sweater vests and looks quite dashing in them, and the weather is turning cold enough to allow it. From there, they dine at a nearby cafe. Hermann nearly weeps when Newt orders him a good cup of quality tea, and he savors a croissant so thoroughly that Newt feels a little turned on by the way he licks the crumbs off his lips.

"It's not like we didn't eat well on the island!" Newt says, leaning in and snagging a bite of the pastry. Damn, well, it is pretty good.

"Thish ish different, Newton," Hermann says, grinning merrily and talking through a mouthful. "Thish ish new." He swallows and sips more of his tea, humming happily. "I haven't had new food in... well, you know." They've decided not to mention the timeline in public. Fewer odd looks that way.

Leading Hermann through the city is almost like leading a cross between a puppy and a toddler. Overexcited and still getting used to a return to his human form - they've picked him up a basic cane from a convenience shop since his limp is permanently returned, but Newt plans on taking him to a nicer boutique and surprising him with a better one later - Hermann looks to want to dart about and get up close with every new sight, sound, and experience.

But if he wants to do that, he needs to learn how to cross the damn street without dying.

"Patience, Herms," Newt says, his arm tucked into the other man's. "You're mortal again, you should savor every moment you have left and not take any dumb risks."

"Yes," Hermann says, and the way he says it makes Newt twist his head, as if Hermann's just only realized this. "Yes, you're right. Bloody hell, Newton, the world is so much faster and more dangerous, it feels. How am I to survive it?"

Newt smiles, leans up and pecks him on the cheek.

"With my help. We'll figure it out together, okay?"

Hermann kept his promise. He didn't leave Newt alone, and Newt figures he should return the favor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THAT'S IT YA'LL THAT'S IT! I totally forgot to post yesterday, so sorry. Here's an extra spooky day for ya'll!
> 
> Thanks so much to GloriaVictoria for their fantastic beta work. You're fantastic and the best. Also thanks to everyone who left kudos, commented, and cheered me on. This was such a fun fic to write and watch people read!!!


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